The Woman in the Woods
by Bone Dry
Summary: Set immediately after Headless Witch from s2. With Brennan still recovering from the realization that Hastings was a murderer, a killer decides to test her limits, and she takes the bait.
1. Mud, Rain, and Bones

_So before we get started on this fairly lengthy piece of fanfiction, I'll give the timeline. We are set after Witch from season two but before Judas, meaning we have Zack, Hodgins/Angela, and no psychologists/Sully/additional Keenan baggage. This is a case fic with very little romantic "fluff" except between Angela and Hodgins. None between Brennan and Booth, so this may not be particularly attractive to some readers. BUT I have tried to keep the show's canon intact and do the characters justice, so if you liked _Bones_ around this time in the second season, this should suit you._

_And yes, I know that I promised an _Altered Realities_ sequel, and that is on the way. This was just planned first so it demanded my attention first. The sequel will be next after this._

_So, let's get started, shall we?_

_Welcome to _The Woman in the Woods, _and please enjoy the ride. Remember to keep all appendages _inside the vehicle. _And please, if you read, leave a review. Just a short word to let me know you're there. __Thank you._

:)

_-_00000oooo00000_-_

Chapter One

Storm clouds trooped through the pale blue sky, foretelling rain and possible flooding. Leaves that had long since fallen from their perch atop nearby trees had settled on the ground, underbrush, and those hapless few who had been standing around for an extended period of time without moving. Occasionally a gust of wind would come through and send a whirl of brown leaves into the air, generally causing their numbers to increase as the trees continued to give up their burdens.

The workers at the scene stood around in a casual manner. None cared about the dead plant life in their hair or the feel of precipitation in the atmosphere. Most carried a coffee cup or some kind of easily obtained breakfast item. Radio chatter softly oozed from a few of the men, and murmured conversation was held in various parts of the small clearing.

Heads turned as two new figures approached the quiet scene, one carrying a Styrofoam coffee cup while the other pulled her hair into a pony tail. Neither looked anymore awake then the rest of the crowd, but their presence stirred the first hint of movement since dawn.

"Agent Booth, Dr. Brennan?" an African American man said, stepping toward the partners, one hand still holding the remains of a bagel.

Dr. Temperance Brennan said nothing, her fingers deftly maneuvering into a pair of latex gloves as the hair that had escaped the tie flowed off her shoulders.

Special Agent Seeley Booth did not comment on her silence, instead regarding the officer before him, "You're Paul Stevenson?"

"Yes," he replied and the men shook hands.

"Seeley Booth. This here is Temperance Brennan."

Brennan glanced up at the use of her name. "Hello," she said reflexively.

A hand was offered to her and she shook it, receiving a firm but not constricting squeeze.

"So what's the context of the find?" Booth asked, his hand slipping into his suit pocket to extract a small notebook and pen.

The three began slowly walking in the direction of a roped off area near the border of the clearing.

"5:08 a.m., two kids are running around the forest playing_ Star Wars_ with a couple of sticks. One of them spots something poking out of the dirt, bends to pull it out, and realizes that he is staring at a skull."

"Human?" Brennan asked.

"Yes." He nodded in affirmation.

"What were they doing all the way out here that early in the morning?" Booth asked.

Stevenson shrugged, "They're not too keen on revealing that particular piece of information. Their parents are definitely not going to be pleased."

"Oh, yeah," the agent said in an understanding tone.

"They didn't disturb anything did they?" Brennan asked, the prospect stirring slight apprehension in her gut.

"No," Stevenson said in a way that suggested the very idea was preposterous, "They hightailed it out of there as soon as they saw it. Called it in on a nearby pay phone."

"That was responsible of them."

He nodded. "Wish my kids would do something like that."

"What? Call in a skeleton?"

"No, Bones," Booth intervened as the officer was now staring at her with bemusement and surprise. "Act responsibly."

"Well, how responsible could they be if they were running around a forest before dawn?"

He sighed, "I don't know, Bones." He turned back to Stevenson before she could reply, "Where are they now?"

He jabbed a thumb behind him, "In a squad car waiting for Mommy and Daddy to arrive."

Brennan was the first to step under the tape which secured the part of the scene presumably holding the body. "None of your men disturbed anything?"

"No. Everything is as it was when the kids found it."

Brennan nodded, "Good."

"Anything more we can do for you, ma'am?"

She started to walk down the slope of the hill in front of her, "I won't know until I see what's here. But tell CSU to be on stand-by."

He nodded and walked away, probably content that the scene was no longer in his hands.

The ground was moist and fairly spongy, resisting her very little as she settled into a crouch beside shrubs and a few rocks. Before her a large pine tree stretched to the sky, its sweet and heady scent tangoing with the early morning air. At the feet of the massive plant, seemingly framed by its roots, something white poked from the ground. Shifting her weight, Brennan realized she was gazing at a piece of the zygomatic. As her eyes crawled up she recognized empty orbits and the delicate curve of the nasal bones.

"Is it human?" a voice from miles away asked.

She nodded distractedly, her fingers tracing the piece of the cheekbone that was exposed.

"I'll leave you to it then, Bones. I'd like to talk to the boys before they're picked up."

Another nod and the leaves to her right crunched as he walked away.

Brennan shifted again and reached into her pack, pulling out a brush and a small trowel. The remains were very close to the surface, so it was unlikely that she would need to do any serious digging. CSU would have to do a sweep when she was done, but that was a long way off.

She started to work, brushing dirt, plants, and dead leaves away to reveal the earth's prize. It was a slow and careful process, only revealing millimeters of new bone and soil at a time. The muscles in her back tightened up, and every once in a while she would have to get up and stretch, only to return to the bones moments later, part of her having already bonded with the skeleton at her feet.

They were white in some places, but tea brown in others. Tough pieces of connective tissue still held the hands to their wrists, which in turn had held with the bones of the lower arm, having all been buried deeper in the ground. Most of the rest of the skeleton had long since separated, for those bones had not been so lucky. When she had finally revealed the skeleton, she rocked back on her heels and stared at her find.

The skull was turned to its side, jaw hanging open, the occipital still partially buried. Running down the length of the spine were vertebrae, all seeming to be present. From the pelvis jutted two femurs, both still nestled in their connective tissue at both the hip and knee. The feet had rotted more than this, and she could see the talus and calcaneous, the bones of the ankle and heel, poking out of the dirt beyond the shin.

Scattered around the bones like old bombshells were dead insects and puparial casings. They were also on the top soil around the area, some caught near the roots of the tree which kept her sheltered from the wind.

Gingerly, she reached forward and lightly touched the connective tissue on the wrist. It was spongy, though not quite as much as the surrounding soil. She looked at the staining and the lack of damage and formulated thoughts. Given the fact that there were almost no missing bones, it was more than safe to assume the body had not been moved from another burial site. But the lack of damage bothered her. Had a body been rotting here, it surely would've attracted the local wildlife, not just the insects.

However, had this place been regularly flooded, it _may_ have washed away the top soil enough times to eventually expose the skeleton had it been buried deeper at another time.

Her knees popped as she rose and looked around. She was on the downward slope of a hill, and her ears picked up the sound of flowing water. Walking to the left of the pine, she realized that the source was a stream nestled between conifers, maples, and more pine trees, as well as various shrubbery and brush.

The theory of flooding was a long-shot considering the fact that casings and most of the bones were still present, but soil samples and weather reports for the past few years would probably give her an answer.

Shrugging her shoulders once to relieve some of the tension stored there, she returned to the skeleton and bent near the skull, her fingers delicately teasing it up and out of the ground. When it was free, she leaned back and was met with a wall of pine bark. Bracing against it, she held the skull to eye-level.

It was stained brown from many months spent in the ground, and the orbits were still caked with dirt. She brushed them out, her desire to perform a precursory examination eclipsing thoughts of time and place.

Supporting the jaw with one hand while the other held the occipital, Brennan once again returned her attention to the skull as a whole and began distinguishing traits.

The cheekbones rose high and gracefully, having once supported a strong masseter muscle, suggesting Caucasian descent. The high and elongated nasal arch seemed to confirm. Her eyes picked out the delicate muscle markings and modest build of the bones in general. Glancing at the pelvis, she noted its size and relative shape.

Setting the skull back in its original resting place, Brennan once again settled against the roots of the tree, closing her eyes. Inhaling, she smelled rain and earth, as well as leaves and sap. Her five a.m. wake up call was starting to catch up to her, and despite how damp everything around her was, it almost felt like a good place to take a nap. Glancing at her clock with one half-open eye, she started. 1:38 in the afternoon. Seven hours had flown by in a space of time that had only seemed to last a few minutes.

Her knees protested as she forced herself to her feet again, indulging in a long stretch which extended her spine and lengthened her fingers. Feeling slightly more relaxed, she turned and was startled to realize that her partner was dozing against a nearby tree trunk.

He had abandoned his suit in favor of a coat with FBI stenciled across the arms and back. It was draped over him like a blanket, and one hand had slipped down to brush the dirt, a pen and notepad on the ground beside it. His breath rhythmically burst out in a stream of white, dispelling into the surrounding air.

Brennan briefly considered waking him, but decided against it. She needed to get the skeleton zipped up and prepare for a final sweep with the CSU team before his presence would be demanded—if nothing else then for a late lunch. Until then he could rest.

Besides, she didn't have the heart to break his peaceful expression until it was necessary.

Sighing, she trudged up the hill and back into the clearing. Stevenson met her as she was heading toward the CSU unit.

"Do you need anything, Dr. Brennan?"

"Yeah." She nodded, directing her needs at one of the techs, "A body bag, some smaller transport bags, evidence bags, jars, forceps, et cetera. We're also going to need to sweep the area, so bring the GPR, sifts..." she exhaled, "All of those things."

They nodded as one and set to work, pulling things out of the only car that had braved the forest and its treacherous path. Brennan joined them, making sure that everything that they would need was present and accounted for.

Satisfied, she headed back down the hill to the skeleton that waited there, setting the techs to work. She would handle the main recovery, while they would sweep. A glance at the sky sent a twinge of apprehension through her heart. Rain was heavy in the air, and she was afraid that the evidence would wash away with the water. If that was the case, then a GPR sweep would be useless, and recovery would turn into a race against the clock.

Her fears were realized twenty minutes later as the first drops of rain began to fall. Only moments later they were more violent and coming much faster.

She barked at the techs to abandon the sweep and help recover the bones and insect casings. Thankfully, soil samples were taken care of, giving them once less thing to worry about.

The sky dimmed as the rainclouds completely took over it, and a few members of the little team were forced to run to the car and grab fluorescent lighting. Temporarily halted, Brennan took the opportunity to wolf down the sandwich that Booth had retrieved for her at some earlier point in time. He had been inextricably awoken by the arrival of the CSU, and instead of shifting to a slightly more tranquil place, he had disappeared—coming back with edibles of both the solid and liquid kind.

When the lights arrived and were set up, work resumed, and within only a few hours every bone and puparial casing that had been found was bagged and waiting in the large van.

Sighing, Brennan settled against the truck. She was coated in mud and dirt, and smelled of the same things she had been working in for the past several hours—earth, trees, and mud. Her hair was soaked, as were her clothes, but none of it mattered. The skeleton was safe.

She jumped at sudden pressure on her shoulders, and realized that it was Booth, who was just as wet as she was.

"Hey, Bones, what do you say we head out of here?" he asked, "I mean, in case you hadn't noticed, it's pouring out here."

"Yeah. I surmised that," she replied, attempting a joke.

"How very astute," he mocked, gently pushing her off the van.

She walked beside him, and together they headed back into the narrow band of forest on the opposite end of the woods that had once held the skeleton, for there was no other way to reach the SUV and its padded seats, seat warmers, and centralized heating.

"So, what did you find?" Booth asked as they stumbled over roots and vegetation. It was the first time they had been alone together since early that morning.

She briefly recounted what had been recovered.

"Any thoughts?"

Brennan weighed what to reveal and what to hold back for more information on, "Preliminary analysis suggests that the skeleton is a female of Caucasoid descent." She settled on that.

"Age?"

She wrinkled her nose, "I'm not sure about that yet."

"But you have a suspicion?"

"Yes," she admitted hesitantly, hating to make conclusions without sufficient examination.

"Well, let's hear it, Bones."

"Mid to late thirties."

"Anything else?"

They reached the end of the line of trees, and before them stood the black SUV in all of its glory. Never had it looked more inviting then at that moment.

"Nothing I'm comfortable saying," Brennan said as Booth walked around back and popped the trunk.

"Then how about something you're not comfortable saying?" he asked as she opened the car door.

"By definition, I—"

Booth cut her off, wrapping a blanket around her shoulders, "I know, Bones. I was just messing with you." He hopped in his own side of the car and started the engine, smiling at her.

She glared at him, but a small grin pulled at the corners of her mouth, ruining the effect.

"Ugh," her partner groaned, looking at the clock on the dash, "You know it's almost six, Bones?"

"Really?" she said with a start, looking at her own clock, "Already?"

"And, you know, we only had those crappy sandwiches, too. Man, I am suddenly starving." He backed the car out of its makeshift space and pulled onto the main road.

"How far are we from DC again?" Brennan asked, unable to recall the detail from the ride over.

"About forty-five minutes."

"How far from the Diner?"

"The same."

"Should we change?" She looked down at her muddy scrubs, "I mean, I can slip out of these, but I know the clothing underneath hasn't faired any better."

"I'm too hungry for that."

"We could have Sid deliver."

He glanced at her, "That's a good idea."

"My apartment is closest, though I should probably stop by the lab first since the skeleton will be coming in shortly." She said it without much heart.

"Oh, no, Bones. You've worked enough for today."

"Well, I have a change of clothes over there, and—"

"Bones, you have clothes at home, as well as your car and bed. Just for once, take the afternoon off."

"You think I should?" she asked, leaning back against her seat, sleep starting to weigh on her eyelids.

"Definitely."

"Okay," she muttered, closing her eyes and relieving the pressure.

"Okay?" he repeated.

"Yes. Okay." She yawned.

"You agreed with me?" He sounded awe-struck.

"Yes, Booth," she turned over a little and wrapped the blanket more tightly around her shoulders, suddenly realizing how tired she really was, "I agree."

"I'm touched, Bones."

The reply bubbled to her lips before she could stop herself, "You're touched in the head."

He chuckled, "That's funny, Bones."

"You think?" she thought she asked, her voice sounding far away.

She never heard his wry reply.

--

"Bones?" It came from miles away, "Bones?" Pressure on her shoulder, "Bones? _Bones?_ Are you even listening to me? Bones?" Tapping by her left ear, "Heeelllllooo? Bones?"

Brennan opened an eye, "What? Booth?" Her eyes focused on her partner, "Where are we?"

He gestured to his left, "Your apartment."

"We are? When did that happen?"

"A few minutes ago."

She rubbed her eyes, "I must have fallen asleep."

"Yeah. You did."

She inhaled and smelled something, "Wait, is that chinese, Booth?"

"Yeah. I stopped by Sid's and picked up some food."

"Well, then let's go up and eat it."

"Sounds good, Bones."

She opened the door and hopped out, dragging her bag with her. Booth trailed behind as she entered the apartment complex and headed up the stairs automatically, not thinking about her path. She went through the rest of her motions on auto-pilot as well: open the door, plop down the bag, kick off the shoes, and head to the bedroom.

Booth stopped her as she went to perform the last of her usual routine, "Uh, Bones, where are you going?"

She paused and realized that she had already half-unbuttoned her shirt, "I'm just going to change. Get the scrubs off."

"Want me to set out plates or anything?"

"No. Just pull out some glasses and whatever you want to drink."

"Do you want anything?"

"No. I'm fine, thanks."

"Alright, Bones."

She smiled at him before retreating to her bedroom, shutting the door and changing in record time. Although she had been in worse states, it didn't suit her to be wet and muddy—especially in her own apartment. Running a brush through her hair, she quickly yanked it into a pony tail before rejoining her partner on her couch.

"Would you like a towel or something? A blanket?"

Booth looked at her, "No. I'm okay."

"Are you sure? I have some in the back."

"I'll be fine." He opened the top of a small white container and handed it to her, "Chow mein."

"Thanks," she said, reaching forward to grab a pair of chopsticks.

"Welcome, Bones."

They ate in silence for a few minutes, neither wanting to speak. But eventually Booth broke it, "So I hear you are going to Chaos on Friday."

Brennan looked up at him, the chopsticks frozen in her mouth, "What?"

He smiled, "Angela told me."

"She did?"

"Yeah. I think it's good you're getting out. Meeting new people."

"But does it really count if she's forcing me to go?"

"Gotta start somewhere, Bones."

"You think?"

"For sure," his eyes met her own for the briefest of moments before flicking back down to his food.

It was always difficult to come up with conversation without work as the basic foil, and therefore Brennan grasped for one final straw of conversation before calling it quits, "How's it going with Cam?"

Booth blushed slightly, "Uh, good, Bones. We're doing good."

"I'm glad, Booth. It's just you guys don't talk about it much and it would seem to suggest that—"

"We're discreet, okay? You know, everything's doing fine."

"Okay. Just wanted to check in."

"Check in?" he repeated.

"Well, we're very work-oriented, and I was trying to expand the focus."

"That's okay, Bones. Our relationship is fine."

Having eaten her fill, Brennan removed the chopsticks from the container, and set them carefully on the table. "Good," she said awkwardly.

Booth inhaled, set down his own chopsticks, then changed the subject, "Is there anything else about the victim you are comfortable saying?"

She considered again what to reveal and what to keep hidden in its ambiguity, "She's been there for a while. At least a year, maybe more."

"Did you see anything for cause of death?"

She shook her head, choosing to keep silent about her observations.

Booth nodded, as if expecting the answer, then pointed a finger at the cartons left over, "Do you want these our should I take them?"

Brennan thought one more time about the woman in the woods and knew this would be a case that would keep her out of her apartment from early in the morning until late at night, giving her little time to eat, "I'll take it." If she didn't have the energy to cook later in the week, she'd survive off the leftovers.

"Okay, Bones." He grinned at her and rose, "I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Of course."

"Who's turn was it to bring the doughnuts?"

"Hodgins'."

"Right, right," he said, opening the door to her apartment, "Good night, Bones."

"Good night, Booth."

With a click, he was gone.

Sighing, Brennan leaned back into her couch and listened to rain pelt against her window panes. She could hear the water rushing over the streets below and imagined that most sensible people had not gone out at all today. Sometimes she wished she was one of those sensible persons, but alas her job did not allow for that kind of frivolity. Maybe it _was_ good she was being dragged out by one Angela Montenegro in a few days' time.

Grimacing at what possible reaction the artist could have to that thought, Brennan got up and cleared the table, sticking the boxes in the fridge and washing the chopsticks for later use. Storing them, she poured herself a single glass of wine, changed into her soft terrycloth robe, and tucked herself onto a chair near an open window, savoring the hush that rain always brought.

Tomorrow would be a long day, but tonight the world could slow down—albeit for just a little while.

--

The next day found Brennan in the Jeffersonian's Medico-Legal lab transferring bones from their protective body bag onto a light table. She was in the bone suite, a light box to her left, and tables on either side of her tall frame, the early morning quiet having yet to be broken. Although a few other scientists were present, it was mostly security personnel that she saw float by the entrance to the room. The stillness was relaxing, and it was one of the reasons she loved the mornings and late nights so much.

Zack Addy also shared this love, for he had done a cursory examination of the skeleton and boiled the bones the night before, having received Brennan's instructions via the CSU techs. Young and eager to please, he spent most nights opposite her, bent over a light table. In that way they were alike, always working and always thinking.

Of course, it was this very same love that kept them locked away from the world.

Placing the last of the bones on the table, Brennan turned and began to slip x-rays into the light box, intent on learning any possible secrets from them first before looking at the bones or Zack's notes.

A study of the skull revealed nothing of note. Everything looked very average to her eyes. She took the radiographic images down and reached for the next stack.

"Hey, sweetie," a voice cut into her concentration.

"Hey, Ange," she said, not looking at Angela Montenegro as she snapped in another x-ray, creating a sound like distant thunder.

"Is this where you were yesterday? Cam said you had gotten a call or something and couldn't come in."

"Yes." Brennan turned, leaning against an empty section of the table which held the skeleton, and briefly outlined the day's events.

"Sounds pleasant," the artist remarked dryly.

She didn't respond, her attention once again riveted to the x-rays.

"So do you want me to do a facial reconstruction now, or should I wait?"

"Did Zack find anything on the skull?"

"Umm..." Angela's voice trailed off as she brushed by the anthropologist and reached for a file, "No," she said after a moment, "Nothing but some slight water damage."

She nodded, "Then it should be alright."

"I'll see you later, sweetie."

Another nod and the artist clicked out, taking the skull with her.

Turning her attention back to the x-rays, Brennan stared at the anterior shot of the cervical vertebrae. What held her attention was C4, which had been transected through the body. It was one clean cut, and she did not see any radiating fractures or reaction.

Resisting the urge to abandon the x-rays in favor of the skeleton, she filed away the observation and continued onward, running into nothing until she hit the stills of the right arm and shoulder.

Although fuzzy, the radiographic images of the scapula seemed amiss to her. She stared hard at the glenoid process—the point where the humerus, or upper arm, met the shoulder—but could not place her subconscious itch. Making another mental note, Brennan moved on and immediately hit more abnormalities, though these were much clearer.

The lower end of the humerus and its articulation with the radius and ulna were all wrong. Although she saw no comminuted or complete transections, radiating fractures snaked outward from all the three bones at the site of the elbow, suggesting there was at least a partial dislocation.

Feeling a slight sense of trepidation, she shifted to the slides of the wrist end of the radius and ulna. Although the latter did not display anything unusual, the radius had a long split running up the styloid process, as well as marginal fracturing along the point where it would normally have met the wrist. Her eyes slid down to the scaphoid and trapezium and found that they were not in proper alignment. Normally she would've expected this from a body that was so decomposed, but in this case she wasn't so sure that this _was_ normal.

Finally abandoning the x-rays, Brennan turned to the skeleton and reached for the scapula. As she had suspected, the glenoid had been fractured—presumably by taking a direct hit from the humerus.

Setting down the bone, Brennan leaned back onto the table behind her and stared into space for a long time, knowing but not really wanting to consider what she had found. She was afraid of what the C4 vertebra would tell her, unwilling to allow that sort of imagery into her mind.

But her partner, in his typical fashion, broke her reverie.

"Hey, Bones."

She looked over at him mournfully, but said nothing.

"What's wrong?" he set down the small paper sack he was carrying on a nearby counter and walked toward her, "You feeling okay, Bones?"

"We've got to catch whoever did this, Booth."

"What?" Obviously her segue had caught him off-guard.

"The victim—her arm was twisted behind her back so violently that it dislocated her wrist, elbow, and shoulder from their proper alignments. Presumably, he must have slit her throat at the same time."

"We'll catch him," Booth said after a moment.

"You don't know that," she looked down, staring at the dead woman on her table.

"Yes I do, Bones," he turned up her chin, "If there's anything I know right now, it's that."

"You're sure?"

"One hundred percent, Temperance. And don't let anyone tell you otherwise."


	2. Old Battlefields

_Okay, so...I know absolutely nothing of the legal system, so bear with me if I used the wrong terms, played out the wrong scenarios, et cetera..._

_I was never sure about this chapter, but, oh well, it's here. Tell me what you think please..._

-00000oooo00000-

Chapter Two

Further examination of the skeleton revealed other injuries. It was several hours of work, all spent bent over the table or staring into the smoky depths of x-rays, but when it was over Brennan did not feel any relief. Mostly, she just felt drained. Drained and tired.

The lab was in mid-afternoon swing, and other scientists were perpetually drifting by, some poking their heads in to exchange a hello and others simply passing through. She had dimmed some of the harsh florescent lighting in an attempt to avoid a headache, but the pain behind her eyes suggested that it had not been enough.

Sighing, Brennan peeled off her gloves and threw them in a waste bin as she walked out of the bone suite. A voice called her name before she had even gone four paces, and she turned to see Angela walking out of her office, carrying a sketch pad while a pencil threatened to fall out from behind her ear.

"I have a face for our victim," the artist said, holding out the pad.

She took it and forced her aching eyes to focus. The woman in the drawing was smiling as she leaned against a railing, hair blown to one side. Her nose was long and thin, and her lips were shaded a light crimson. Flipping the page, Brennan found another drawing of the same woman, this one more of a facial sketch than a portrait.

"It's very beautiful, Ange," she said.

"Thank you, sweetie. I sent it to Booth and Zack popped in to tell me to tell you that he's running her dentals through Missing Persons."

Brennan nodded, "I'm glad."

Angela studied her for a moment, "How long _have_ you been here?"

"A while," she provided evasively.

"Uh-huh. Well, I _know_ you haven't eaten. Tell you what, I'll run out and grab us some rolls from that sushi place around the corner, and then we can have a very late lunch together. Honestly, sweetie," the artist said as she started to walk away, "I don't think you'd ever eat if one of us didn't bring you food."

Brennan watched her go before turning and heading to her office, shaking her head. Although there was some truth to what she said, it wasn't the whole truth. Sometimes she _did_ eat dinner without any prompting.

Sometimes.

Entering her office, she was moderately surprised by the tidiness. Usually there were stacks of paperwork in her inbox and on her coffee table. A few days ago, because of a dearth of cases, she had tackled all of her old paperwork and turned it into Dr. Camille Saroyan—because as far as she was concerned it was the pathologist's problem when she had finished. Cam had looked extremely surprised when the anthropologist had dumped the pile of papers on her desk unceremoniously, given a brief explanation, and walked out to take the rest of the day off. It was an action very un-Brennan-like, but at the time it had felt right.

Feeling slightly better because of the lack of busywork, Brennan walked to her desk and reached behind one of the skulls she kept there, extracting a bottle of Advil. Twisting off the lid, she downed two, then replaced the bottle.

"Wow. Never knew this side of you, Bones," her partner's voice drifted in from the doorway.

She dropped into her chair and swiveled to face him, "What side?"

He smiled at her and shook his head, "Never mind." Stepping forward, he waggled a file in front of her, "I've got good news."

She sprang for it, but he retracted his arm.

"You are going to be so pleased, Bones."

She lunged again, but he repeated his action.

"Give it to me, Booth," she growled.

"Now that's not a very nice tone, Bones."

She glared at him.

After a moment his smile slipped and he handed her the file. "Anyone ever tell you that you need to lighten up a little?" He sat across from her.

"Yes. I think you have. Several times, in fact."

"Were you listening?"

"What?" her eyes skimmed down the list, and only every other word of his was getting through.

"That answers my question, Bones."

"We have an ID for the victim?" Brennan asked excitedly, completely ignoring his last statement. "When? How?"

"Angela's sketch—it got several hits on our computers. Zack's dentals narrowed it down."

Her eyebrows raised, "You talked to Zack?"

"Nah. I just talked to Angela."

"One day you will have to work with him, you know."

"Yeah, Bones, but," he snapped his fingers and pointed to her, "That day is not today."

"Very funny." She rose and reached for her lab coat.

"I thought it was." He got up too.

Slipping it on, she made for the door, "Then apparently you missed my sarcasm."

"I didn't miss it. I ignored it. There's a difference, Bones."

She scowled.

"And besides, weren't you the one that told me that sarcasm is never helpful?"

"Yeah, well I changed my mind."

"What made you do that?"

"Working with you."

"That hurt, Bones." He placed a hand over his heart as they stepped into the bone suite, where most of team had already gathered.

"Now who's being sarcastic?"

He raised a finger, but Angela cut him off before he could reply, "Lover's quarrel? Oh, that's so hot."

"Really?" Dr. Jack Hodgins asked from his seat atop a light table, one hand gripping a file, "Well, we can do better than that."

"Really, Hodgie?" Angela's voice was syrupy smooth as she walked toward him, "Care to demonstrate?"

"Oh, yeah."

"I _will_ get a bucket of cold water," Dr. Camille Saroyan said as she walked into the room.

Hodgins sighed.

"You really need a new line, Cam," Angela said.

"Eh, this one has a tradition behind it."

"So did foot binding."

The pathologist laughed.

"This is one of those times when I have no idea what's going on," Zack Addy said in a bewildered tone, a scapula in his hand.

"Nothing worth knowing, Zack," Angela patted his shoulder.

Brennan, ignoring them, walked around to the skeleton on her table and stood behind the skull. "Our victim's name is Katherine Banks."

At that simple statement, the energy in the room dramatically shifted, and everyone become their professional selves once more.

Booth leaned back against one of the walls, staring at the file in his hand, "Katherine Banks, thirty-four. She was single, a divorce attorney for Dykema.

"Disappeared on January 8th, 2005."

A few eyes went to Hodgins, who replied to the unspoken question, "That fits with insect and soil samples."

"Even with the strange dispersal of the puparial casings?" Brennan asked.

"Yeah. Most of those belonged to coffin flies."

"Coffin flies?" Booth asked, "Do I even want to know?"

"Flies that sometimes burrow through the soil to get to the body," Hodgins said, though he looked as if he was on the verge of explaining further.

"That's okay." He held up his hands, "I don't need to hear anymore."

"Any family?" Brennan asked before the entomologist could respond.

"Yeah," Booth looked through the folder, "A brother who's married with one kid. He works a few miles from Dykema—an accountant for Adecco."

"Have you informed them of Katherine's death?"

"Yeah. I called them this morning." He was silent for a moment—for informing the family was one of the toughest parts of the job—before clearing his throat, "Did you find anything else on her skeleton?"

Brennan sighed, "A lot of defensive fracturing to her knuckles and phalanges."

"I also found a fracture to her left wrist," Zack piped up.

She nodded, "Most likely, she was slammed into a wall and used her arm to brace against the impact."

"Two broken wrists, a slit throat, and defensive fractures?" Angela said incredulously, "That's a lot of rage."

"Did you find anything, Cam?" Booth asked after a moment.

She shook her head, "Not enough soft tissue."

"So what's the next step from here?" Brennan asked, "Talk to the co-workers and let the family have time to process the news? I'm assuming we're not suspecting the family, right?"

"Right, Bones," Booth said. "Let's go talk to some lawyers."

"But, Angela and I—" she attempted a protest.

"Go, sweetie," the artist cut in, "The sushi will be waiting when you get back."

"Have fun," Cam commented.

"Oh, trust me, we will," his voice was dark as he ushered Brennan out.

--

"I can't imagine who would want to hurt Katherine," Elizabeth Spencer said slowly, nervously fidgeting with a pencil, "She was always so nice. Everyone loved her."

"Her closing rates were pretty solid," Erin Payne said, "She'd win about two for every loss. It was pretty hard to fill the gap she left in this place."

"The police report says that you two were out on a play-date when she disappeared?" Booth asked without even a glance at his notes.

Elizabeth nodded and tucked a few strands of blonde hair behind her ear as she reached onto her desk for a photograph, "For our children. They're both around the same age."

Booth took the photograph, "She looks very happy."

"Yeah, they're always running around."

"Shelby is only a year older," Erin said, "We like to have them over on the weekends."

Brennan felt Booth's elbow dig into her side.

"Cute," she provided.

A pained exhale slipped from her partner's lips, "When was the last time you saw Katherine?"

"Isn't it all in the report?" Erin asked.

"Yeah, but sometimes it helps to go through old memories. You know, see if anything comes to mind."

A glance was exchanged between the two women; Elizabeth shifted legs.

Erin spoke, "We all had dinner to celebrate winning three consecutive cases in a row. Split the bill, drank a lot of wine."

"We never heard from her again," Elizabeth said and she was now wringing a tissue. "Oh, God," the tissue tore, "Do you think the wine could've had something to do with it? I knew we shouldn't have had those extra glasses."

"I'm sure it didn't," Erin said soothingly, then looked at Booth, who looked at Brennan.

"There's no definitive way of ascertaining that—" Brennan started to say, but received another sharp jab to her ribcage, "But it's unlikely."

"Thank, God," the remains of the tissue were being twisted now.

"Sweetie," Erin said and it reminded Brennan of Angela, "Maybe you should relax a little. She has been missing for almost two years. We all suspected something like this."

"But to have it confirmed...Things like this just don't happen to people you know." Elizabeth turned bleary eyes to Brennan, "Did she suffer?"

Yes. Yes she had; but that would be the exact wrong thing to say. "Uh..." the anthropologist glanced at her partner for support, who gave her the slightest of nods, "It was quick." At least she could say that with some degree of certainty. That was what she was hoping, anyway.

"Thank, God."

Booth shifted gears, "Did Katherine ever complain about being watched? Was anyone bothering her at the time of her disappearance? Strange phone calls, weird noises—you know, anything like that?"

"Yeah," Erin said after a moment, "Come to think of it, she had been mentioning something weird was going on."

Booth's notepad was out in moments.

"It was nothing huge, she just said she had had this strange feeling lately. That it felt like someone was watching her. I think she did mention hang-ups, actually."

"Oh, God, do you think she was being stalked?" Elizabeth's self control was starting to crumble, "We should have listened. Made her file a police report."

"Liz, you have got to calm down," Erin said, "I know it's upsetting, but you've got to keep it together, okay, sweetie? We're not helping Katherine right now."

"You're right," Elizabeth sniffed. "I'm sorry." She took a shaky breath and her fidgeting ceased.

"Is there anything else you can think of?" Booth asked.

Both women shook their heads.

"We'll leave you two then. Come on, Bones," he gestured toward her and they both rose, "Call if you do remember anything more, alright?" he held a card out.

They exchanged confirmations and good-byes before walking out.

"It looks like we have a lead, Bones," Booth told her quietly as they headed toward an elevator, "Now we'll just have to see if the phone company can be persuaded to give up some records without a warrant."

"And if not?"

"We're going to have to talk to a lot more people."

"Excuse me?" a voice from behind them said. They turned.

Erin Payne stood behind them with hands clutched around her waist, "I'm sorry about Elizabeth. She—she's had some problems in her past, and sometimes she can get a little worked up around this kind of subject."

"No. It's upsetting. We understand."

Erin glanced around and gestured for them to come closer, "Katherine...Katherine was dating one of the bosses around here," she said in a lower tone, "Though I think it ended before she disappeared."

"Who was it?" Booth pulled out his notepad again.

"Gary Larsen. Works slightly higher up in the food chain."

"He's still here?"

She nodded.

"But please don't tell Elizabeth. If she starts suspecting her own co-workers it could be disastrous. Usually she's the very symbol of professionalism, but not today."

"We'll try to conduct this discreetly."

"Thank you," she began to walk away, but paused and lowered her voice again, "Catch the sonofabitch who did this. Katherine was a good person."

Booth nodded as Erin crossed into a nearby room and closed the door behind her.

"What now?" Brennan asked.

"Now we go talk to the friends," he replied, tapping the button for the elevator. "After that I think Mr. Larsen's going to be coming in for a little chat."

--

Katherine's friends were reminiscent of Elizabeth—three mid to late thirties women, all upset and crying. They insisted that Katherine was a wonderful person who's ambition had one day been to start a family and that her choices for men had been limited because of how much time she spent working. Two useful pieces of information were gleaned from the hour long conversation: the defense attorney had indeed been dating Gary Larsen and that around the time of her disappearance she had been spooked.

When questioned about the latter, Terri Feldstein had admitted that Katherine had seen the same guy on the streets when she was, that occasionally a car would follow her around town, and she was getting hang-ups. But Katherine had not filed a police report despite encouragement—chalking it all up to paranoia. Like Elizabeth, they were all afraid that their lack of insistence had been the cause of their friend's death.

Neither Brennan nor her partner had had the heart to admit that there was probably some truth to that.

On their way back to the Dykema office, Booth had decided to play the interview with Larsen like an interview rather than interrogation. From his point of view, the crime was impersonal and didn't fit the general profile of someone who had known the victim well. But, and he had stressed the 'but,' one whiff of sliminess on the guy and he would be on him like stink on cheese.

When questioned as to how one does such a thing, Booth had gone silent, rolled his eyes, and said, "Oh, God, Bones, do you even _have_ a TV?" to which she had not bothered to reply.

However, upon reaching the office they were informed that Larsen had already gone home for the day, but if they would please leave their names and phone numbers they could set up an appointment. A badge raise later and Booth had made his own appointment for Larsen to come to the J Edgar Hoover building, his patience apparently already worn thin.

Having determined that the lawyer would come in whether he wanted to or not, Booth asked the inevitable, "What now?" as he started his car engine.

Brennan buckled her seat belt, "We should probably go to the lab."

"At twenty to six, Bones?"

She shrugged, "It's no different from usual."

He gazed at her for a moment before turning and backing out, making no comment on her statement.

Traffic was a mess, and the ride that normally would've lasted about fifteen minutes took closer to forty-five. During this time, the clouds had conspired to drop another heavy load of rain, and by the time they reached the lab Booth had decided that he was going to hang out with the "Squint Squad" instead of walking out to "drown."

"Should we be flattered or not?" Brennan asked as she stepped into the bone suite, slipping on her lab coat.

"Flattered, Bones. It's not every day a hunky man like me decides to hang around a place like this."

"That's not true. You're here all the time."

"You say it like it's a bad thing," he sounded wounded.

"I didn't mean it like that."

"Then how did you mean it?"

"It was just a statement of fact, Booth," she said patiently, "Nothing more."

"That's okay, Bones, I was just messing with you."

She glanced up at him, "You seem to be doing that a lot."

"Well, who can blame me, Bones? You're cute when you're mad."

Brennan shot him a glare that could freeze boiling lava.

"Or not."

"More fighting, you two?" Angela asked from the doorway, "It never ends. Just get a room already." She smiled at them.

"Angela!" Brennan reprimanded.

She held up her hands, "Just interpreting for you, sweetie. One day you'll know what I'm talking about."

"It's not what you're saying I don't understand, it's what you're implying," she said, snapping on a pair of latex gloves.

"Exactly."

She rolled her eyes.

"Hey, fourth person in the room," Hodgins said from his seat atop a light table. It did not appear as if he had moved from that position since several hours before.

"Fifth," Zack interjected.

"Sixth," Cam said as she walked in.

"Great, now our own little Planet Vulcan is complete," Booth commented, instigating another glare from his partner.

Angela smiled but swallowed whatever it was she had to say.

"Did you find anything in the soil, Hodgins?" Brennan asked and once again the energy shifted.

Hodgins shook his head, now looking solemn, "Nothing."

"No natural or artificial fibers? No foreign particulates?"

"No. None."

"She was buried without any clothing?" Angela said with disgust.

"It's the only logical explanation," Brennan said quietly.

"When Zack's done with the bones, I can check some of the injuries, but so far it doesn't look like we've found anything." Hodgins.

"You know anything about the weapon, Zack?" the anthropologist turned to her grad student.

"Um," he quickly walked around to the nearest computer and pulled a magnifier to the skeleton, centering it over the cervical vertebrae. "The marks in the bone suggest a non-serrated blade coming from right to left."

"One clean slice?"

"Yes. No false starts or exit chipping."

"That's cold," Cam said, grimacing.

"What does all that mean?" Booth asked.

"Zack?" Brennan said.

Always the murder victim, Zack Addy had stopped protesting long ago, his only sign of discomfort on his face. Turning, he waited for her to come.

And she did. Flashing forward with incredible speed, Brennan twisted Zack's right hand behind his back with her own as her left slid around his throat. Moving her fingers from right to left, she demonstrated how quickly the murder could have occurred.

"The fractures on her left knuckles and fingers can be explained as defensive fracturing, and the broken wrist by the killer slamming her into a wall." This time she did not demonstrate. "After which he may have grabbed her and slit her throat."

"Jeez, Bones, simmer down a little," Booth interjected.

She ignored him, "Thanks, Zack."

"You're welcome, Dr. Brennan," he replied meekly, one hand encircling the other.

"So you think that's what happened?" Booth asked, gesturing at the two anthropologists.

"Yes," Brennan said. She turned back to Zack, "Any ideas on the make of the weapon?"

He made a face which gave a clearly indicated, 'No,' "It looks like a common kitchen knife. Large and sharp."

She nodded, "Good work, Zack."

In response, he sat down on the light table opposite the skeleton and across from Hodgins, who immediately grinned and whispered something into his ear. Zack smiled shyly and blushed a little, glancing at Brennan.

Angela walked over and patted his shoulder.

Booth ignored the silent exchange, "So you didn't, you know, find any foreign particulates on the skeleton, Hodgins?"

The entomologist regarded him, "No, man. Everything was clean."

"Did the soil samples fit with the flooding theory?" Brennan asked.

"Yeah. And that would explain why there were so many coffin flies in proportion to the other insect species."

She nodded and looked down at the skeleton for a moment, thinking, "Is that all we have for now?"

Nods were exchanged among the scientists and soon after everyone dispersed—Zack and Hodgins heading for their office, Cam to her autopsy suite, and Booth up to the lounge, supposedly needing to "recover" from all the "squint talk."

"So, sweetie, you up for the sushi?" Angela asked.

Brennan rolled her neck and it cracked.

"Ouch."

The anthropologist grimaced, "Yeah; I'm a little hungry."

"Good. You admitted it. That's growth, sweetie," Angela grabbed her arm and walked her out.

"Angela," the admonish was familiar on her lips, but there was no force behind it.

"See? Even you agree with me."

Brennan rolled her eyes as they entered the artist's den and plopped onto a nearby chair.

"What? No comeback?" Angela asked, reaching down to a small portable refrigerator and pulling out four packages of rolls and a large container of dipping sauce. "You feeling okay?"

"I'm fine, Angela," she reached forward and unwrapped one of the packages.

"You sure? You've been acting weird since the last case."

"I don't know what you're talking about," she dodged, popping a roll into her mouth.

"Sweetie, don't make me spell it out. We both know what it is."

Brennan glanced up and locked eyes with the artist for the briefest of moments. Sympathy and concern. That was the problem right there. Everyone was concerned for her and she didn't know how to respond. Even after almost four years at the Jeffersonian, she still didn't know. But she would attempt one final evasion before lowering her shield, for she didn't have the energy to keep it up much longer, "I don't know what it is."

Angela's eyes flashed with disappointment before returning to that same damn sympathy which saddened her so, "Will."

Brennan's breath froze in her throat and she looked down again, focusing on a small rice grain which had escaped the seaweed and was now clinging to the edge of the foil, knowing her shield had just developed a massive crack but at a loss for how to repair it.

"Sweetie, you've got to talk about it. I know it's been bothering you. Just let me in," the artist reached out and touched her hand. "Please."

The warmth from Angela's hand was reassuring, and she realized with a dull pang in her chest that it was the first contact she'd had in a long time. With great reluctance, she lowered her shattered shield and spoke, "I've been alone my whole life. At first it was a position I was forced into, but eventually it became necessity, and after a while I grew used to it. I haven't met too many people with similar experience as my own, and less still that felt any inclination to understand," she chose her words carefully, fighting to hold onto her self-control—battered from years of unrest and mistrust. "But I just felt..." she tried to think of the right phrase, but failed, "I just felt as if maybe I'd met someone who would understand when I met Will. Someone I could be open with instead of hiding. But he turned out to be just like the rest. There was no understanding there," her voice was bitter as she looked back into the artist's eyes, "Maybe I'm just one of those people who will always be alone. I was just so desperate for a connection that I failed to realize who he really was..." her words trailed off into nothing and she was afraid she had revealed too much, the sting of betrayal still raw in her heart.

"Oh, Brennan," Angela said softly and pulled her into a hug, releasing her slowly but keeping both hands on her shoulders, "You're not alone."

She desperately groped for her fallen shield, not believing how low her self-confidence had slipped in only a few moments of exposure. Her heart was foreign territory, a battlefield long since abandoned. There, everything she was fell away, and the landmarks for getting back were buried in the sand. The soldiers that had once manned this place had passed away long ago, and only their skeletons proved they had ever existed. From far away, she could hear her voice, and it was soft and fragile—coming straight from the bowels of the lost land, "Then why does everyone leave me?" That was it. The cat was out of the bag, and the barren desert of her heart swirled a thousand dust devils.

Angela's eyes were sad, "We won't leave you; you have to know that." Brennan could vaguely feel the pressure on her shoulders as the artist tried to squeeze comfort through, "Tell me you do."

A throat clearing from the doorway broke through, and both of them looked toward the source, Angela's hands slipping down to her lap. "Am I interrupting another female moment?" Jack Hodgins asked slowly, one hand gripping a file while the other stretched the rubber band on his wrist.

"No," Brennan said, and the walls were coming back up, "No. What have you found?"

Hodgins shook his head, "I didn't find anything. I was just hoping to have some dinner."

"We'll talk later, Hodgins," Angela said, "Just give me a moment with Bren, okay?"

He nodded, "I'll see you then."

She replicated the movement absently, turning back, but Brennan had already caged her heart again, and the constricting pain was gone, replaced once again by the coolness of reason.

"I—I should go," she said, and rose quickly, "Thanks, Angela." She made for the doorway, part of her wanting nothing more than to run, while the other wanted nothing more than to lie down and sleep.

"Wait, sweetie," the artist said in a startled tone, "Are you sure you're okay?"

Brennan stopped and her shoulders sagged as the faraway voice from her heart spoke again, "I'm not sure I ever will be."


	3. Organized Chaos

-00000oooo00000-

Chapter Three

Organized chaos flowed from Brennan's speakers as the rain pounded against the windows, seemingly in step with Erroll Garner as his fingers flowed over the piano keys on the CD. She loved jazz, and Garner was a particular favorite of hers, somehow allowing her mind to drift while her senses relaxed.

Idly, her fingers kept pace with the key strikes as she stared outside, wondering at her virtual break-down in Angela's office hours before. The inner examination had been draining, but for a reason she had yet to determine, it felt as if a small weight had lifted from her shoulders. Her spirit felt lighter than it had in weeks.

Humming the basic melody of "Erroll's Bounce," she adjusted in her seat and her eyes caught on a familiar shape as it rolled to a stop outside of the apartment complex. Smiling, she watched as her partner stepped out of the SUV, hands encircling a large brown box. Somehow, even at midnight the man knew when she was both brooding and running off of a few bites of food.

She waited in her chair until the knock came and didn't so much as flinch when his name for her drifted through the door, "Bones?" he paused for a moment, "Bones, I know you're in there." Another pause, this one shorter than the one before, "I can hear that piano music of yours. Bones?"

Slowly, she rose and took her time walking to the door, the balls of her feet hitting the floor in time with the cello. Undoing the chain and the lock, she opened the door.

"Hey, Bones," Seeley Booth said with an easy smile on his face. His hair was mussed and his suit had been substituted for his leather jacket, the starched white shirt now navy with cartoon characters sprawled about. He looked good, albeit tired.

For her own credit, Brennan's hair was down and brushing her shoulders, curled from hours spent in a bun. Her necklace and earrings had been placed on a nearby table, though she had kept her black blazer on. Still wrapped around her neck was a crimson scarf, which she had been wearing without even having realized it. Although she knew her eyes were probably bloodshot, they had seemed clear enough when she had glanced in the mirror a few hours ago.

"Hello, Booth," she smiled at him.

He was giving her a once-over, carefully analyzing her voice and body language. It suddenly occurred to her that his visit may have been prompted by Angela, in which case any information he gathered could be used in some way that was meant to be supportive or kindly—though in most cases it seemed to manifest as a day off, something that never pleased the anthropologist but tended to allow her time to rest and recuperate.

But Booth did not drop his reason for coming; instead, he merely opened his mouth, "Mind if I come in? I brought food."

"Sure," she said and backed from the doorway.

"What is this anyway?" he asked, watching with a bemused expression as she kept time with the cello.

"Erroll Garner."

He set down the box of food and sloughed off his jacket as they both sat, "I feel like I'm in an old jazz bar."

"Is that a good thing?"

His eyes twinkled as he grinned, "Not sure, Bones. Planning on performing a strip tease?"

"Booth!" she slapped his shoulder, grinning herself.

"I take that as a no?"

She shook her head and reached for a carton, "Definite no."

His smile broadened, "I was joking, Bones."

"I guessed."

"Really? The great Temperance Brennan _guessed_?"

"It was an educated guess, Booth," she stuck her nose in the carton and the smell of curry wafted up, "Mm. Indian?"

"Thought I'd mix it up tonight. We usually do Chinese."

She hungrily manipulated a large chunk of chicken into her mouth, "It's a welcome change."

"Good. Glad you're happy."

"How in the world did you get Indian food at midnight?"

"Eh, Sid was open late and I asked if he could do us a favor."

"That was nice of him."

"We're nice people."

"Apparently."

Conversation dwindled for a moment, broken only by the sporadic taps of piano keys and the munching of food.

The agent was the first to speak, "Angela told me what happened earlier..." he let his voice trail off, obviously wanting her to fill the gap.

"Booth," she said tiredly, suddenly feeling drained again, "I really don't want to talk about it."

"You're sure? You haven't been yourself lately, Bones. We worried about you."

"I know, and I appreciate it, but sometimes it's best to just leave some things unsaid."

"But if you ever need to talk—"

"I know. Come to you," she exhaled and jabbed a pea, "Can we talk about something else?"

"Like what?"

"Just do that thing you do. Posit a scenario."

He blinked, "Okay, Bones."

She sucked on the end of her chopstick and waited.

"Katherine seemed like a good person. She worked hard, did some charity work on her free time, wanted to start a family. Her friends certainly cared. Somewhere along the line, things changed a little. She slept with her boss, started to work later and harder, and her friends started to know her less. And then, one day, she just disappeared.

"But I don't know, Bones. It just doesn't feel like an impersonal murder. There was a lot of rage."

"You're thinking serial?" his train of thought had left her at the terminal.

"No, yes..." he leaned back, "I'm not sure. I need to talk to Larsen."

Brennan thought to herself, "You know, I'm no expert, but did it seem as if Elizabeth was acting strangely?"

"Yeah. You know, it did," he smiled at her, "Psychology, Bones? Maybe I'm finally rubbing off on you."

She scoffed, "Her behavior was out of place for a well-ordered work environment. If she acted like that all the time, she would've been fired long ago. It's not psychology, it's anthropology. Or common sense, at that."

"Well, in any case, I think Larsen's going to have some explaining to do."

"When did you tell him to come in?"

"Eight. I want to get enough sleep too, Bones."

She looked at her watch and winced, "It's almost one now."

He grimaced, "Well, then I should leave you now. We'll both never sleep if I stay."

"Don't flatter yourself," she gave him a lopsided grin.

"Admit it," he got up and pointed at her, "If I stayed, we'd be up all night."

"Would not."

"Oh yes you would, Bones, and you know it."

"You're such an insufferable man, Booth."

"Right back at you, Bones," he walked to the door and pulled it open, "Good night."

She smiled and shook her head, "Good night."

With one final grin, the agent was gone.

--

"You're Gareth Marshall Larsen?" Booth read slowly as he leaned against the south wall of the FBI office's interrogation room.

"Yes. But everyone calls me Gary," Larsen said with an easy smile as he briefly met Brennan's eyes.

Booth did not miss that, "Don't look at her."

"She's sitting right across from me."

"Then don't look directly across from you."

"Booth," Brennan protested his harsh attitude.

Her partner didn't respond as he glared at Larsen.

"Whatever you say, man," the lawyer said, leaning back in his chair.

"Katherine Banks worked for you from April of '03 until she disappeared?"

"Yes."

Booth abruptly switched topics, a tactic to throw Larsen off his guard, "Where were you the night she disappeared?"

"Home. Watching TV."

"Can anyone verify that?"

"No. It was just me and Charlotte."

"Who?"

"My cat," he smiled again.

Booth did not, "Are you trying to be funny?" he turned to Brennan, "Did you think that was funny?"

"Not at all," she replied reflexively.

"Wait," Larsen held up his hands, "Why is this all coming up now? She disappeared two years ago."

"Katherine's dead," Booth said and sat across from him.

"She's _dead?_" he repeated.

"Yeah."

"How?"

"She was murdered," Brennan interjected.

"Oh my God," his self-control faltered, "Do you know who did it?"

Both partners remained silent, merely staring at him.

"Wait," he said again, "You don't think…"

"Oh, that's exactly what we think, Mr. Larsen," Booth said. "And you don't have an alibi."

"It's not looking good," Brennan added.

"So you're going to need to do some serious explaining," he said, then abruptly switched topics again, "What was your relationship with Katherine like?"

Larsen's long bony fingers tapped the table in a frenzied staccato, and it did not look as if he was fully aware of the movement, "We were co-workers. I was her boss. I mean, it was the usual employee-employer relationship."

"Uh-huh," the agent said with a patronizing smile on his lips, "You normally sleep with your employees, Mr. Larsen?" he glanced at Brennan, "That doesn't seem like the usual employee-employer relationship."

"It doesn't," Brennan agreed.

"At work we were professionals. At home we had a relationship. The two didn't cross."

"Then why wouldn't you have just said it in the first place?" Booth asked, leaning forward, "Were things not going so well?"

"We—We broke it off about a week before she disappeared."

"Why? Trouble in paradise?"

"She found out I…had slept with one of her friends…and she caught me cheating."

"She found out you were sleeping with her friend _and _she caught you cheating?" Brennan repeated incredulously, eyebrows hiked.

"No," he said and paused, "I cheated on her friend."

"Elizabeth Spencer," Booth said. It was a statement, not a question.

"Yes," he looked up, startled, and his fingers jumped to start pick at his cuff links, "How did you know?"

"I'm asking the questions here, man," he leaned back, "So you're saying you were home alone when Katherine disappeared?"

"Yes. I was."

"If you're lying, we're going to find out," Booth growled in warning.

"I swear, whatever happened to Katherine, I had nothing to do with it. I want the bastard that did it caught."

Booth said nothing for a long time, staring at Larsen as if trying to gleam some ultimate truth from him.

The lawyer cracked, "You know, a few days before we broke it off, Katherine started to complain about being watched."

Once again, he was given the silent treatment, and Brennan wondered if he would know anything more than the rest of Katherine's friends had.

"I remember…On the day we broke up, she received a large bouquet of flowers and had thought they were from me. Trouble was, I had been away on business the entire day and when I asked my secretary she had not put in an order for me. The fact that it hadn't been me really freaked her out. Was the reason we got into such a huge fight in the first place."

Booth suddenly had his notebook out, "Do you remember the name of the shop that sent the flowers?"

"Yeah. Palace Florists. I remember because it's only a few minutes away from the office and I've bought a few bouquets there myself."

"Did they have any kind of signature?"

"No."

Booth sighed and rubbed his temples, "Is there anything else you can think of?"

"No. I'm sorry, Agent Booth."

For another long moment, he remained silent. Eons later, he finally spoke, "Stay close. In case we need you."

"I will."

"You can see yourself out," he got up and walked to the door, "Bones, come on."

Brennan followed him out and they walked to his office.

"So what do you think of his story?" she asked as she settled across from his desk.

He plopped into his chair, "Well, he gave us the name of a florists' shop, so it'd be pretty ballsy if we pulled the records and the order was never made."

"You think they would have the records even after two years?"

He shrugged, "I hope so."

"Do you think he was involved in the murder?" she asked, reaching into the candy jar on his desk and pulling out a toffee.

"Well, he obviously slept around a lot, but he doesn't seem cold enough."

"Don't you say that killers can lie pretty well?"

"Sometimes, Bones, but I just didn't get that vibe from him."

"But…?" she prompted, unwrapping the candy.

"He's still a suspect."

"Our only suspect."

He threw a small rubber ball into the air and caught it, then pointed at her with it, "Yeah."

"What's the next step from here?" she asked and slipped the toffee into her mouth. "The morning meeting starts in half an hour."

"Well, I'll call the flower shop and see if they still have the records. If they do, I'll call you." He paused, "Want me to give you a ride to the lab?"

"No. I drove myself here, Booth."

"Okay." He paused, "So I'll see you later, Bones?"

She rose and nodded, "You know where to find me."

He made a mock salute and, smiling, she walked out of the office.

--

"Sweetie?" a voice called as Brennan passed through the entrance to the Jeffersonian, "Good morning," Angela said as she caught up to her, "Did you sleep well last night?"

"Yes," she replied, "Did you?"

"Well, not a lot of sleeping went on, I'll tell you that."

"Feel free to tell me no more."

Angela laughed, "Hint taken. Hey, wait," the artist stopped and looked her over, "Were you here earlier?"

"No. Booth and I had an early interview."

"I'm not even going to comment on that. Way too easy."

"Thank you," she tried to resume walking.

"Sweetie, you know it's your turn to bring the doughnuts."

Shit. She'd completely forgotten in all her emotional turmoil the night before.

"How much time do I have if I run out to the doughnut shop?"

"Um," Angela glanced at her wrist, "Twenty."

"Then I can make it." She turned and headed in the direction she had come.

"I'll come with you. Gotta make sure you get some chocolate-glaze."

"I will."

"Sweetie, you always forget. And Zack likes the sprinkles; you always forget that too."

"Not always."

"When's my birthday again?"

Brennan blinked and dug through her memory.

"Uh-huh. Proves my point. You just don't remember the subtle nuances."

She sighed.

Angela quickly changed topics, and soon was chattering about the last few dinner dates with Hodgins, and how the food was really excellent and the two of them should go to lunch there because they were surprisingly inexpensive. On the five minute drive to the bakery, she asked about the interview with Larsen, and Brennan summarized it.

"What was Booth's take?" the artist said as they entered the shop and the smell of fresh doughnuts overwhelmed them.

"He thinks he's still a suspect but that we should peruse other avenues of investigation," Brennan replied as saliva poured into her mouth.

"So he's unsure?"

"Yes."

"Well, honey, then we'll just see where this goes," she said it with an air of finality, looking at the doughnuts in their glass display cases, her stomach having obviously eclipsed her mind. "We've got to get at least three of those," she pointed to a chocolate-glazed, "And two of those." Sprinkles. "Mm…Like five of these." Regular glazed. She looked up at the guy manning the counter and smiled sweetly before negotiating their order.

Brennan wasn't listening, her mind distracted by a piercing sound. It was high frequency—so high that she could barely hear it . It reminded her vaguely of the sound a bell makes just as the last of the vibrations go through it, a screeching wine. Angela appeared to be unaffected, like the rest of the early morning crowd. Only one other person appeared to be hearing it, a young girl sitting in a far corner who was complaining to her mother.

"Mommy, what's that noise?"

"What noise, sweetheart?" the aging brunette asked.

"That sound. It's making an 'EEEEEEEEEEEEE ,' " she imitated the noise that was now starting to hurt Brennan's ears.

"I don't hear it." The mother cocked her head.

"But, Mommy, I can hear it."

"I'm sorry, sweetheart."

"Can we go outside? I don't think it'll follow us. Please."

"Sure." The mother smiled reassuringly, "Come on." She rose and took the child's hand, throwing a plastic wrapper into a nearby trashcan before walking out.

"Sweetie?" Brennan realized that Angela had a hand on her arm, "Bren? You okay?"

"What?" she said reflexively, shaking her head. "Yeah. I'm fine. Do you hear that?"

"Hear what?" the artist looked puzzled.

"Never mind," she said distractedly, not wanting to sound like the young girl, "Must've been imagining it."

_EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE_

"Okay," she regarded her quizzically but did not pursue it, "We have the doughnuts. Let's go."

"Yeah," the ear-splitting sound hadn't faltered, "Yeah. Okay."

"You sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine," she glanced around herself, wondering at the source.

"What are you looking for?"

"I'm not sure." Her molars locked together.

Angela's eyes swept the room, "You see something?"

"No…" her voice trailed off.

_EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE_

"Well, come on. We're due at the meeting in a few minutes." The artist led the way out and, to Brennan's great relief, the sound was cut off when the door shut.

Taking one last glance behind herself, her eyes locked with those of a man sitting in a shadowy corner of the shop. He grinned, and his teeth were as white as ivory, his eyes as blue as the sea. Around his face was three-day-old stubble and his lower lips were powdered white from the sugar of his doughnut.

Brushing off her sudden unease, Brennan hopped into her car, where Angela was already waiting, and drove away.

--

"People," Cam said with what could have passed for an air of command if she hadn't been brandishing a chocolate doughnut. "You have got to start turning in your paperwork on time. It's building up," she shot a pointed look at Zack and Hodgins, "And I am _not_ an administrator."

"Fight bureaucracy in all its forms!" the entomologist cried.

She raised her eyebrows, "This is not a democracy. I call the shots."

"Anarchy!"

Brennan smiled and rubbed her temples, shaking her head, as Cam rolled her eyes.

"Yeah. Doubt that'll ever happen, Hodge-Podge," the pathologist said.

"That's what they all think," he said ominously.

"Yeah. Right," Cam said, then looked at Brennan, "I need your opinion on age for one of the new cases."

She nodded.

"Angela, there's a skull in the autopsy room that needs a face."

The artist replicated Brennan's movement.

"Hodgins, I've got some insects and particulates for you to look at."

He sighed, "Have them brought to my station."

"Already done," she looked at Zack, "A few of the new interns are cataloging bones for Limbo. I need you to supervise."

"Sure, Dr. Saroyan."

"If anything comes up today, let me know." She got up and clapped her hands together, "Let's roll, people."

With that, the small team separated, everyone headed to their designated task. Brennan followed Cam to the autopsy suite.

As the rumor went, the pathologist had been offered a good-sized office upstairs with some of the big-wigs of the Jeffersonian, because she was, after all, the head of an important department, albeit small. Cam had denied the offer, and, when questioned about where she would set up shop, had merely laughed and said that she wanted to get closer to the victims. A day later she had set up all of her office equipment in the autopsy suite, and Goodman had already shown up to try to reason with her.

When he had finally conceded and simply asked why, she had smiled and replied, "Not too many people are going to be gutsy enough to come to me with petty squabbles if it means that they will have to potentially view an autopsy in the process."

As expected, only the most hardy of the workers outside of the forensics team had come to her to make a complaint. Cam enjoyed this immensely.

Currently, the autopsy suite was almost completely unoccupied. This happened every year as the winter months approached. Bodies froze, animals hibernated or migrated, insects moved on, and hikers and hunters alike packed it in. Brennan had also been starting to experience the lull, and expected that soon enough she would have the option of taking days off, as would they all.

Only one body had been rolled out, its form covered by a long sheet. On a stainless steel table a few feet away were x-rays, a clavicle, a pelvic wing, and the upper section of a femur.

"You just need age?" Brennan asked, walking over to the bones.

"Yeah. Sex and race were straightforward enough."

"Homicide?"

She shook her head, "Suicide. Overdosed on oxycodone."

"Are you sure it was suicide?"

"Bottle was empty near the body and the prescription had only been a few days old."

She grimaced.

"Yeah. Can you tell me anything?"

Brennan reached for the femur and lifted it to eye-level, "Epiphysis is fused, but no sign of osteoporotic activity." She traded for the clavicle, "Medial epiphysis is fused." She looked up, "The wisdom teeth have erupted?"

"Yes."

She picked up the pelvic wing, "It's still not completely smooth."

"Verdict?"

"Early to mid thirties."

"Thanks."

Brennan stripped off her gloves, "No problem."

"Bones?" a voice called from the doorway.

She sighed and Cam smiled, shaking her head.

"What, Booth?" she asked.

He walked over to her and smiled, "I have excellent news, Bones."

She turned, "You found a record of the flowers?"

"Oh, yeah," he grinned widely.

"How? The records are two years old."

"An extremely anal record keeper. She opened up when I turned the charm on."

She decided not to comment on that, "So do you have a credit card number or something?"

"Better. I have a name."

"A name?" she repeated excitedly.

"And he lives right here in DC."

Suddenly, the case was broken wide open.


	4. Trip to Chaos

-00000oooo00000-

Chapter Four

The rains, having taken a brief reprieve the day before, were back in full form as Booth rolled the SUV to a stop outside of a small residential home in the outskirts of Mount Pleasant. The neighborhood had once been self-sufficient, the original inhabitants growing food off their own tracts of land. In the 1870s, it became a streetcar suburb, later to be merged with the District and marketed to a middle to upper-middle class. As of the moment, the population was almost equally divided between African Americans, Hispanics, and Caucasians. Crime rates here were not quite as high as those of the surrounding areas, but it was a hot spot for robberies.

The house in front of them featured a modest square of turf which wrapped around the building and extended a fair distance before being cut off by a row of expertly trimmed bushes. Growing from two corners were oaks, and their leaves gave a shadowy canopy to the lawn.

The house itself was mostly brick, with small squares of white breaking it up here and there. The curtains matched the white and were drawn to the mid-morning sun. It looked sleepy and unremarkable, as if nothing had ever happened here and never would.

"Ready, Bones?" Booth asked after they had been staring for a few moments.

"As ready as I'll ever be," she replied, yanking open the car door and hopping out.

Together, they walked to the small concrete stoop and pressed the buzzer that was partially concealed under a hanging ivy plant. It reverberated through the house and Brennan was reminded unpleasantly of the sound that had plagued her in the doughnut shop. Shaking it off, she refocused on the door as a latch clicked free and the door opened a crack.

"Hello?" a voice questioned, and she could not see the face it belonged to.

"Special Agent Seeley Booth. This is Dr. Temperance Brennan from the Jeffersonian. You mind if we come in?"

"An FBI agent and a doctor? What could I have done to warrant this attention?" the door opened a little more and Brennan narrowly avoided gaping in shock.

There he was; the same sea-blue eyes and sparkling white teeth. His hair was mussed back and slick, his chin now clean-shaven. He had a square and stubborn jaw, his cheekbones high, giving him moderately sunken cheeks. On his lips was an easy smile, and he did not seem ruffled by their presence. If anything, he seemed pleased about it.

"Please, sir. It would be better not to discuss this out here."

"Of course," his eyes slid to Brennan's, "Do come in. I was just making muffins."

Neither partner commented as the man backed up, "Name's Richard Crout, by the way."

"Yeah. We know."

"Nasty weather we've been having," he said amicably, walking into a living room which adjoined a kitchen. The theme indoors was, by all appearances, earthy and brick. There was a lot of wood and the couch was a dark green, worn from years of existence. On the walls were several oil paintings of cottages in the middle of forests. Brennan could see Booth study them and wondered if he was forming some sort of psychological conclusion from the old paintings. Crackling quietly in the corner was a fire, and occasionally a louder pop would split the air around it.

"You know, I don't believe I ever asked what kind of doctor you are," Crout said as he dropped into his chair, looking at Brennan.

"Forensic anthropologist," she said stiffly, studying him. His light blue shirt was starched lightly and the collar rose around his neck. Hanging on a peg nearby was the coat he had been wearing earlier that morning, both it and his pants a coal black.

"Ah. Modern day scapulomancy."

Her eyebrows furrowed, "I am not reading patterns of the future for the outcome of a hunt, I'm using evidence to make an empirical judgment."

"But couldn't your readings provide information crucial to the success of the hunt for a killer?"

"It's not magic, it's science."

He did not seem fazed by her tone, "You have a sharp mind, Dr. Brennan."

"I'm an anthropologist."

"Look," Booth intervened, "We're not talking about scapulomancy, we're talking about a murder."

"Murder?" Crout repeated, and a twinge of apprehension was in his voice. Or, Brennan thought conspiratorially, maybe that was what he _wanted_ them to think.

"Yeah. Murder," the agent said, still standing in the doorway, while Brennan had sat across from Crout. "Do you know someone by the name of Katherine Banks?"

"Of course. She was my divorce attorney."

"Your divorce attorney?"

"Yes. I had a falling out with my wife a few years back and we divorced."

"What's her name?" he asked, notepad and pen out.

"Margaret Foltz. I haven't spoken to her in years," he paused for just the right amount of time, seemingly connecting the dots, "What does this have to do with Miss Banks?"

Brennan gritted her teeth at his careful use of Katherine's last name. She had become so close to the victim in the past few days the impersonal title sounded wrong to her ears, "She was murdered."

"Murdered? That's such a shame; she was such a nice person."

"You don't seem very upset."

"We were client and attorney, not girlfriend and boyfriend."

"Then why did you send her flowers?" She could feel Booth's glare on her neck but ignored it.

"We won. She fought very hard for me and I wanted to thank her in some way."

"Flowers seem like a possessive gift. A way of laying claim."

The corner of his lips twitched ever so slightly, "You don't beat around the bush, do you?"

"No."

Booth intervened again, "Those were pretty expensive flowers for a thank-you."

"Well, I won a fair settlement. It was the least I could do."

A ping sounded from the kitchen and Crout jumped to his feet. "It would seem my muffins are ready. Would either of you care for one?"

"No," Booth said while Brennan remained silent, giving a slight shake of her head.

"Pity." He walked into the kitchen, pulling on oven mitts. "I take it that means you won't be staying for long?"

"No," he said again, sounding appalled by the idea.

"I'm disappointed," Crout looked at Brennan, "You're more than worth talking to."

She said nothing.

Booth took a slight step in front of her, shielding her as he always did, "We'll be in touch."

He smiled. It was the smile that a snake would give right before his strike, "I look forward to it."

Brennan rose and studied him for a moment longer, wondering at the audacity of this man. She was now convinced he had been the source of the noise in the shop and was starting to feel unease. He obviously enjoyed control—over himself with his rather meticulous appearance, over his surroundings with his carefully placed décor, and over others with his lack of reaction and the vexing ability to steer a conversation in exactly the direction he wanted it to go.

It struck her that he had easily lured her in with clever prods and carefully placed words. She had been caught in her own game, and she was suddenly overwhelmed with the impression that perhaps Katherine Banks had been drawn in as she had, and had ended up dead.

"Dr. Brennan?" his voice oozed as she followed Booth to the door, "You must be very good to be chosen to work with the FBI."

Her mind reached for a witty response, but found that all she had was her old line. She tossed the words over her shoulder as she walked out the door, glancing back only once to meet his eyes and issue the challenge, "The best." It was confident, strong, and without a hint of doubt.

But Crout did not look apprehensive. In fact, only a small grin lit the corners of his mouth as the sea in his eyes froze to ice, "Until next time, Dr. Brennan."

The door shut and he was gone from her view. She inhaled and tasted the rain in the air, then released her breath with a puff of gray precipitation.

Yes. _A la prochaine_, Mr. Crout, but I will win this game of wits.

--

Brennan did not tell Booth about the incident in the doughnut shop. In part, she could not out of pride, a motive that she used disturbingly often when making decisions. Despite the fact that she knew her pride had been the source of many awkward and even dangerous situations, it was the one part of her emotional psyche that she dared not touch. It had seen her through situations she otherwise would not have survived, even at the expense of emotional connections she had forged—forcing them deeper into the dry expanses of her heart. It was the reason she refused to give up, and it was the reason she had not died in a car underground two months ago. For its fortitude it had earned the only safe zone in her heart, a place that no one was allowed to question or harass.

Her second motivation also stemmed out of pride. Professional pride. She knew in her heart that Crout had been the source of the ominous buzzing. Empirically, she had no concrete evidence. For once, it was her gut giving the orders, and what came as an even greater shock was that her head had accepted it. Booth would hold this above her head forever, and if he realized the window to her heart had been opened, she knew he would want to try to do some healing. In reality, that would only result in her closing up further.

However, Brennan's own judgment told her, rightly or wrongly, that Richard Crout was a threat. Her instincts had been developed out of necessity, just as her isolation—a defense mechanism. Throughout her career she had been exposed to the underside of life, the lowest of the low. She had worked maybe four feet from persons responsible for mass genocide, rape, and torture. Surviving an environment like that required sensitivity to the emotional climate around her, something she was highly unskilled at. What she had learned was to read people's eyes. She could never tell a truth-teller from a lier, but she could recognize a black heart from miles away.

And what she knew with certainty, despite all reason, was that Richard Crout had a black heart.

Logically, she realized that the intelligent decision would be to report her suspicion to her partner. After all, their lack of communication had resulted in a few instances in which massive amounts of paperwork were created because of a misinterpreted joke or comment, thus pulling everyone into a bureaucratic labyrinth that only Cam had found the way out of. There had also been other times in which it had resulted in situations far more dire, generally one in which she was staring, metaphorically or not, into a barrel of a gun without an escape route, her only hope that the attacker would be arrogant enough to believe he had her outclassed.

While she may have logic tell her otherwise, her pride had her ensnared in its web. This was a fight she had to win alone, and she had no doubt this would be a fight. A showdown between two intellectuals on opposite sides of morality. She had only met Crout for a few minutes, but in that time she'd heard the challenge and thrown it right back.

And so, after agreeing with Booth that Crout was a serious "nutbar," Brennan was dropped back at the lab, where she had every intention of heading to her office and planning an attack.

But Angela Montenegro had other plans.

"Sweetie?" the syrupy-smooth voice purred from behind her, "Oh, sweetie?"

"Yes?" Brennan said, not pausing in stride.

"You do realize what today is?"

"The twenty-eighth?" she replied distractedly.

"Nice try," she said dryly, "It's Friday."

"I don't get the significance..." her voice trailed off as she comprehended, then turned to meet the artist's eyes, "Angela, I don't know."

"Oh no. You're not backing out now. I need this. You need this. We're going."

"But it's still early," she said desperately.

"Yes. But if you don't prepare, we'll never make it. I'm telling you now so you can't say you forgot and got wrapped up in something at the last moment."

"But I—"

"No buts. You're overtaxing yourself and, frankly, you can't keep it up much longer. Those bags under your eyes are growing by the minute. I don't know if it's emotional strain or just you being overly obsessive again, but you need a break. Immediately," her tone was forceful but her eyes were soft as she reached out and squeezed Brennan's hand, "Just rest for the day."

She wanted to tell her she couldn't. That she had to plot out an offense; that she had to go over Katherine's skeleton again; that Booth would need her for an interview. But instead, she simply conceded. The scars from her brief relationship with Will, her memories of the time in the car, and her emotional fallout had combined to make her inclined to agree. She needed a break, if only for a night.

"Good. I'll see you in a few hours."

Angela left her and Brennan walked to her office, closed the door, and dropped onto her couch with a sigh, reaching for the notepad she had left on the coffee table. Tonight she would take her break, but right now she could be productive.

That conviction held for a total of eight minutes before she closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep.

--

The blinds had been drawn when Brennan opened her eyes again. The office was dark, the only light a soft glow from her computer monitor and a few daggers coming from the main lab, just barely slipping through the window coverings. She reached up and rubbed her temples, glancing at her watch as it hovered in front of her. 6:08. She'd slept hours away.

Sitting up, she tucked loose hair behind her ears, preventing her blanket from falling to the floor in the process, and glanced around. Angela must've been the one who had darkened the office and draped the blanket over her. She had pulled the stunt many times, though Brennan couldn't honestly say she had any negative feelings about it. It was sweet, though the artist always failed to wake her at any decent time so she could get some work done.

She peeled herself off the warm confines of the bed and quickly folded her blanket and threw it over the couch, straightening her white shirt and walking over to the hanger to grab her lab coat. Shrugging it on, she walked out of her office.

The lab was in its afternoon lull. Most of the scientists had left at five, only a few of the workaholics having stayed. And on a Friday, the number of these workaholics was much reduced. To her surprise, she found Hodgins in his usual station, stooped over a light table, while Zack stood opposite.

"Okay, this time, I want Larry," the entomologist said.

"You sure?" Zack asked, "Not Jeff?"

"He always loses."

"Not always. Just usually."

He rolled his eyes, "Exactly my point."

"Well, I'm staying with Ollie."

"Congratulations. Can we just get the beetles already?"

Zack turned and reached for the beetle jar, "Yes. Here they are." He placed two beetles on the table. "That's Larry and that's Ollie," he pointed.

"Yeah. Yeah. I get it."

After a few moments, the beetle dubbed 'Ollie' passed through the outside line and Zack held out a gloved hand, "Ollie won. Pay up."

Hodgins scowled and reached into his pocket, "You know, I think you gave me Jeff and just aren't telling me."

"Nope. That's Larry," the grad student turned and reached into the jar again, fished around, then pulled out another beetle, "This is Jeff."

After another moment, Hodgins forked over the money and they started again. To his great chagrin, Ollie won again.

"Okay, double-or-nothing."

"You sure, Hodgins? Statistically, that's not a good move."

"I'm sure. We can do this."

With raised eyebrows, Zack released the beetles and, once again, Ollie passed through first.

"Dammit!"

"I told you it was a bad decision. Money?"

Hodgins handed it over, "I want another beetle. Give me Jeff again."

"Okay," he walked to the beetle jar again.

Brennan shook her head and got off the station she was leaning against, then walked away. Although quirky, the two were good scientists and she had no intention of ruining their dubious fun. They waved as she passed, and she waved back, declining their invitation to join in.

A few yards down, Cam was locking up the autopsy suite, a large bag slung over her shoulder and a purse at her feet, "Good night, Dr. Brennan," she said, waving.

"Good night, Dr. Saroyan," she replied.

Smiling, Cam walked away, her keys jingled in her pocket as one shoulder precariously balanced the bag and the purse.

Brennan headed to Angela's office, for once in her life having no desire to work.

The artist was standing in front of an easel, a towel slung over her shoulder. Her fingers deftly created lines and shadows with a charcoal stick, and Brennan watched silently as a figure took form. With a start, she realized it was herself.

This Brennan was smiling, hair down and brushing the outlines of a shirt. Around her neck was a necklace, a large beaded affair with one visible matching earring. The likeness was astounding.

With a grunt of satisfaction, Angela quickly signed the piece and turned to reach for something, jumping when she noticed that the woman in the drawing was standing directly across from her.

"Sweetie!" she exclaimed, "You're up?"

"Yes. I've been sleeping for several hours now."

"I know. Told everyone to leave you alone for a while."

"You didn't have to do that."

"I wanted to."

She stared at the drawing, saying nothing.

"Do you like it?" Angela asked.

"It's very good. Excellent likeness. And I would know," she added dryly.

"You would. Now, can I get _you_ to look like that?"

A smile tugged at her lips, "We'll see."

"Yes. We will," it almost sounded like a threat, "Now, you can't go like that. You need to dress for the occasion."

"But—"

"Uh-uh, honey. White collared shirt does not a bar make. Still have that tank-top from last time?"

"The Bassment?" Brennan sighed, "We aren't going to have a repeat of that, are we?"

"One can only hope," a glare stopped further comments on that line of thought, "But no. I checked the place out, and no methamphetamines."

"We found it because I kicked a guy into a wall." She paused as they walked out of the office, "Well, that and a body."

"Ugh, now that is something I _don't_ want to see tonight."

"Yeah, that would definitely wreck the evening."

Angela popped an eyebrow, "Even you don't want a skeleton tonight?"

"No. Although DJ Mount was technically a mummy at that point."

"Yes, honey, I know. Believe me, I know."

--

Brennan sat at Chaos' bar slowly sipping a Perrier. After one forced shot, she had taken her fill of alcohol for the evening. Angela had accused her of being boring, but she had reminded her that someone needed to be able to drive tonight. The artist had conceded, though unhappily.

At first, she had danced a few times, talked to a few strangers, but eventually she had settled back into "anthropologic" mode, and was now perfectly content to survey the scene around her, although it had first required assuring Angela she was enjoying herself, which, in all truth, she was.

Many of the people in the bar were drunk, that much was very clear. Surrounding her on both sides were women nursing various concoctions of alcohol, no doubt recovering from the work week. A few people were also drunkenly careening around the dance floor, in that euphoric state that Brennan rarely visited and could hardly remember. Angela was smooth-talking a bartender, her intent obviously to snag an inexpensive drink, which she promptly received. Taking a sip, she chatted with her neighbor, an old art friend from college she had recognized on sight.

Brennan's cell vibrated in her pocket and she pulled it out, her concentration broken. The ID said Booth, and she quickly slipped outside to take the call.

"Bones?"

"Yeah," she replied, leaning against the wall.

"I've got some news..." he paused, "Where are you?"

"Chaos."

"Oh! I hope I didn't interrupt anything," he suddenly sounded uncomfortable.

"No, no. It's fine. What do you have to tell me?"

Another pause and she could sense that it was bad news before he said it, "Richard Crout..."

"What about him?" her molars naturally reached for each other at the very mention of his name.

"You remember he said that he was divorced?"

"Yes."

"Well, his ex, she's gone."

"Gone? What do you mean gone?"

"Disappeared. No address changes, no contacts...She's gone."

"You mean a 'missing' kind of gone, or an identity change gone?"

"The missing kind, Bones."

"Do you have any way of tracking her down?" she asked, a sick feeling uncurling in her gut.

"I'm working on it. In the meantime, I want you to go home."

"Why?"

"Crout seems to have an interest in you. I..." he paused, "I want you safe."

"I'm fine."

"You know, you always say that and then something goes wrong and you're not fine anymore."

"Nothing's going to happen to me, Booth."

More silence. She imagined he was struggling for a good argument, and, apparently, was failing. When he spoke again, his tone was lower, slightly more intimate, "Just watch your back, Bones, alright? No unnecessary risks."

"Okay. I promise."

"Good. I'll talk to you soon."

They exchanged good-byes, and Brennan quickly turned for the door to the bar, having every intention of telling Angela it was time to call it a night. She froze as she saw something uncurl from the shadows and watched as a figure walked into the light.

"Dr. Brennan," Richard Crout said, "So we meet again."


	5. Of Baiting and Old Gas Stations

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Chapter Five

Brennan quickly grabbed a hand-hold on her emotions and raced through possible responses. She didn't know what would happen if he sensed weakness, and she wasn't about to leave herself vulnerable enough to find out. Failing to think of anything witty, she settled on blunt, "What are you doing here?"

"I was having a drink at the bar," Crout replied easily. His stance was loose and yet tight somehow, as if he was ready to spring if she tried to run, and his eyes had a hardened look that hadn't been there before.

"Then why aren't you still at the bar?"

"I noticed you."

Her heart rate picked up, but she didn't react visibly, "And you decided to follow me?"

"No. Not follow. I just waited around until you were done talking on the phone. Agent Booth?"

"That's none of your business," she said coldly.

To her great chagrin, he laughed, "Hint taken."

She said nothing.

"You know, I'll be forthright with you, since you just as equally forthright with me." He was teasing her. The audacious bastard was teasing her, "You're a very interesting woman."

"What does that even mean?"

"It means _I_ find you interesting."

Good God. The psychopathic nutbar was _interested_ in her? "Well, I hate to disappoint you, but I don't feel the same way."

He cringed and his voice was almost imperceptibly harder when he replied, "That's pretty cold, Temperance."

It took every ounce of her self-control to remain unresponsive. _No one_ called her Temperance. To her friends she was Brennan or Dr. Brennan, and to Booth she was Bones. Even her brother, when she had last spoken to him, called her Tempe. Only in vague memories of her childhood was she ever Temperance, and the intimacy associated with it made her feel violated in some way as he said it so easily, "Do not call me that." It was an order, and she didn't care if she should try to keep him an ally. She was so far past caring that she wasn't even sure what it felt like anymore.

"I hear you, doctor," he said and the playful light was back in his eyes, "So are you here on your own?"

"No." She didn't dare mention Angela's name, more afraid of what he might do to the artist then what he might do to herself.

"Friend or a date?"

"That's hardly your business."

"I gather it must be the former."

"And what led you to that assumption?"

"You wouldn't be standing out here talking to me if you were with anyone special."

It came as a bit of a surprise when she processed his words. She was standing outside of a bar at somewhere around eight o'clock at night talking to a suspected murderer. Not only that, but the man was manipulating her despite the resistance she put up. And ironically, Angela, the woman who had tried to bring her out, had only locked her up further because she was now afraid to go back into the bar, lest Crout develop an interest in the artist.

She conceded, though no less bluntly, "You're right. I wouldn't."

He shifted, leaning back against a dumpster, and his clean shirt contrasted sharply with the graffitied box of metal and plastic. "So I take it you're not dating?"

"No."

"That's a shame. Someone like you should have an intellectual equal."

"And what kind of person am I?"

"Intelligent. No-nonsense. Calculating."

"Well, those aren't traits that have men lining up on my doorstep."

"Indeed."

Her eyes slid down and she noticed something. Snaking up his left arm was a long scar, it's lines thick and rough. "How did you get that?" she pointed.

"I'd rather not ruin our conversation with that."

"I'm a forensic anthropologist. You can't disgust me."

He said nothing for a moment, possibly mulling over his response or perhaps just making her stew. She was about to ask again when he finally responded, "When I was younger I used to work in an old gas station right outside of the District, just barely entering Virginian territory." He paused for a moment.

"And...?" she prompted.

"I was transporting boxes from one place to another. When I reached across a particularly large crate I ran my arm along a sharp edge of metal where there had once been a handle."

"That's pretty deep for a scrape."

He shrugged, "I hadn't felt it until I had pulled back my hand and saw the blood."

"And that is supposed to disgust me?"

"It's unpleasant. Not really something to discuss among civilized people."

She resisted the urge to raise her eyebrows at the insinuation that_ he_ was civilized.

"Now that I volunteered something, maybe I should ask something of you?" It was a flirtatious question, and she did not appreciate it.

"As long as you don't expect a response."

"Tut-tut, Temperance. You're no fun at all."

"I told you not to call me that."

"And why wouldn't you want me to call you by your name?"

"Is this your alloted question?"

"It could be."

His smile was starting to make her feel nauseous, "Well, unfortunately for you, Mr. Crout, I have no intention of answering."

"Do call me Richard."

There was no doubt in her mind that if she did, she would vomit, "I think I will stick with 'Mr. Crout.' "

"As I think I'll stick with 'Temperance.' "

She exhaled, "Fine. But I will treat it as if you called me 'Dr. Brennan.' "

"And I will treat your use of my last name as 'Richard.' "

Now she could taste the bile in her throat. "Do what you like."

"You're very hostile, Temperance."

"I thought I was blunt."

He laughed again, sending shivers up her spine, "You are that too."

Brennan was fast losing her patience. She wanted to leave, go home, far far away from this lunatic. "Don't you have anywhere you need to be?"

"What? You're tired of my company?" It was a subtle jab, perhaps to make her feel guilty, though all she felt was disgust.

She grasped for a decent excuse, suddenly overcome by the irrational fear that he would follow her home if that was where she chose to go. "I would like to go back to work."

"At eight o'clock on a Friday?"

"Yes."

"That's a lot of dedication."

"Not really," she said, resisting the urge to glance around herself for an escape route.

"Nothing better to do?" his voice sounded of false sympathy.

"No. And I don't believe that you're privy to that sort of information."

"Very defensive too. Lighten up a little."

"I don't make a habit of relaxing around suspected murderers."

"And yet here we are having a chat."

"You don't seem upset by the accusation."

"In your line of work I would think that you suspect everyone of something underhanded."

She refused to even entertain the notion, deep down suspecting he was probably right, "Murder goes beyond underhanded, Mr. Crout."

"Indeed it does." His smile did not seem as if it would ever falter.

"Do you enjoy being a suspect in a murder investigation?"

"If it means I could continue to talk to you, then yes."

The nausea was back in full form, and she didn't care anymore. She had to get away from the vile man, "I have to go, Mr. Crout."

He looked truly wounded, "Okay. I shall see you again."

When hell and the golf courses freeze over. She didn't voice the thought, instead throwing him a curt nod before opening the door to Chaos and walking back into life.

"Sweetie!" a voice called the instant she reached the bar, "There you are! I was starting to worry."

Brennan glanced behind herself but did not see Crout. He had not followed her inside. Her body relaxed, and she hadn't realized how tense she had been up to that moment.

"Is everything all right?" the ever perceptive Angela asked, "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"That would be impossible considering there's no such thing."

She shook her head, but did not comment, "So do you want to stay here any longer?"

"No. I think I would just like to head home."

"This was pretty good for only your second trip to the real world," Angela teased, "Next time though, I am going to get you a date."

"There's no need for that."

"Yeah. You're right. What am I saying? You've got Booth."

"Angela," the reprimand was so familiar it was automatic.

"Just saying, sweetie—"

"No. It's never going to happen."

"That's what you think."

Brennan did not comment any further as they walked out the doors and headed for the parking lot, far too focused on looking for the shadowy figure of Richard Crout. By the time they had reached the car, Angela was watching her intently.

"You sure you're okay, sweetie? Anything you want to tell me?"

"No, no. Everything's fine." She couldn't bring herself to tell the artist what had happened only a few minutes before.

"Okay," she continued to study her before hopping into the car, "I'm going to trust you this time."

"Thanks."

The ride home was spent in silence, and Brennan was convinced that Angela knew or, if she didn't, would find out about Crout. But little did she know that that was the least of her problems and, in fact, they had only just begun.

--

At three a.m. the streets and buildings of DC were silent save for the buzzing of a light or the sound of an occasional lonely car as it drifted through the city. Disturbing this relative silence was the ever relentless rain, which was once again coming down in torrents of water, soaking plant life and inanimate objects alike. The Jeffersonian Institution's Medico-Legal Lab was also quiet, its only life the three security guards who perpetually pulled the short straw and one restless anthropologist who had found the night's events too taxing for sleep.

Although Brennan had originally been dropped home, she had found herself jumping at every creak and hum of her apartment, and eventually had ended up by her window, looking for any sign that _he_ was there. When she had finally fallen asleep on her chair, she had been tormented by dreams of Katherine's death, watching as Crout walked out of the shadows and slit her throat, too late realizing that it was not Katherine, but herself.

Having woken up soaked in sweat and only moments from screaming, Brennan had immediately ran to her bedroom, changed, and driven to the lab, her haven if there ever was one.

Before her was Katherine Banks, a result of whatever mental pathology Crout was suffering from. But perhaps he was not actually insane, merely on the opposite side of morality. It was a notion that chilled Brennan to the core, and its implications made her feel sick. The skeleton on her table had been ravaged and broken, and her nightmares had brought about a sharp sense of reality to the woman's pain. She knew in her heart of hearts that Crout was responsible for the devastation. But what she didn't have was proof.

Evidence, facts, logic—they were her domain. She was intimately familiar with the processes these things went through before coming to light, before becoming what they ultimately were. But her opinions had biased her views, and she had lost her objectivity because of it. Floundering on the precipice overlooking both entirety and emptiness, she was now struggling for a handhold in the familiar.

What she had was a skeleton.

Through the course of her career she had become acquainted with the many different views surrounding both her trade and its primary focus. Most viewed her bones as ghoulish and disturbing, the result of having been stripped bare from any semblance of life. Few treated them as ethereal in quality and beautiful in sight.

To Brennan, the skeleton expressed life in subtleties only those who cared to look for would see. The flesh was far more turbulent and transient; it grew and tore, withered and failed, and ultimately did not last in any fight against time. But it was the most obvious to any superficial onlooker, and it was the supposed source of beauty in life.

But in her eyes, bones went far beyond a simple blueprint for the body. They possessed a record of the life they had once supported, laying the truth out flatly and unquestionably, the ambiguity lying only with the one who chose to interpret. They stood as a roadblock across time, proof that a life had been lived thousands of years in the past or merely three days before.

And to her relief, the great anthropologist found herself relaxing as she slipped back into her world of skeletons. It was, perhaps, something that would one day infect her mind and dampen her spirit, but in her own bitter thoughts it didn't matter. Its poison had already spread, and she was caught permanently in its morbid web, indelibly marked by the views that all those in her career shared. It was ironic that a serial killer had been the one to point it out.

Her concentration was shattered by her phone, which had vibrated itself off her table and crashed to the floor.

Cursing, she bent and picked it up, wondering who would call her at such an ungodly hour. A beeping informed her that she had received a text and she opened it, albeit warily.

The caller was listed as unknown, but she knew who it was the instant she read the words. Lips pursed, she made up her mind. It was time for the end to come, and she was determined to come out the victor in this game of wits.

And so, without any further consideration, Brennan walked out of the lab to beat the ringmaster, or die trying.

--

Seeley Booth walked into the Jeffersonian at twenty past two and sighed. When he had come home earlier in the night he had been met with four urgent messages from a very amped up Angela saying that his partner was acting strangely. Of course, the word "strange" when associated with Temperance Brennan became a relative term, and anyone who dared define it ran the risk of incurring her wrath. And though Booth thrived off pushing her buttons, he wasn't always willing to surf an explosion.

It had been one a.m. when he had arrived home. Forty minutes later he had conjured up some food and headed to Brennan's apartment, only to discover that she was not there. Which was how he had come to be at the lab at such a late hour.

However, even after searching the lab for his troubled partner, she had not turned up. He had tried her cell and her home phone and received no response. For all intents and purposes, she had vanished, and Booth was starting to feel nervous himself.

Crout had developed some sort of interest in her. The agent didn't know why this was, he just knew that the Loony Toon had looked at her in a way that sent warning bells off in his head. It was a meeting that had lasted maybe six minutes, but in that space of time Booth had gotten a clear sense that something was off with Crout and he knew that he was a prime example of a man he didn't want his partner exposed to. For all she was a brilliant scientist, she was lousy at reading people, and it was the reason that she often got into trouble when she didn't see the signs that the person she was communicating with was, in fact, morally bankrupt. Most of her past failed relationships were a testament to that.

Booth walked over to the security guard he had come to know most out of the three there. His name was Timothy Roberts, a man with four rescue dogs and a fish named Jimmy.

"Have you, uh, seen Dr. Brennan tonight?"

"Oh, yeah," he replied in his thick New Orleans accent, "She was here all right."

"When?"

"About fifteen minutes ago. And she sure left in a hurry."

"What does that mean?"

He shrugged, "I asked her, man, and she just said she had something to take care of."

"At two a.m.?"

"One learns not to question those of such high IQs."

"Did anything happen before this?"

"Not sure," he shrugged again, "She went tearing out of the Boneyard and to her office brandishing around her phone like it held all the answers to life."

"Her phone?" Booth repeated, his own cell already out.

"Yeah." He paused and his eyebrows crimped with the beginnings of worry, "You don't think she could've gotten any bad news?"

"God, I hope not," he said ominously, turning to go as he started to dial a number.

"Wait, man. Should I be concerned?" Tim was clearly showing signs of distress.

Booth turned and replied in a way very much like his partner, "I don't know." Without pausing to see the man's response, he walked out, his phone already waking up a guy who could do a fast trace.

Ten minutes later, he was on the road with destination in hand, praying that he would get there in time to stop her from doing anything stupid.

--

Many of the gas pumps that were still standing had tipped to the side during the course of their abandonment. The few slashes of light that hit them from the street revealed graffiti and abuse, the result of generations of people taking out their frustrations. Whatever light the streetlights provided did not come anywhere near striking the main building of the gas station, and Brennan approached it warily, one hand firmly around the gun she had purchased a few weeks before without telling her partner.

The door was open, a gaping maw just inviting her to enter so it could gobble her up. Inside, all she could see was blackness, and it seemed to go on forever. It took most of her self-control to simply stand outside of it, and it took all of it to step inside.

Once she was in, she knew there was no turning back. Oddly, she felt braver simply because she had passed one of his psychological barriers, and defiance lit her eyes when it suddenly occurred to her that he had been using psychology all along to tug her along in his little game.

However, she also knew that she had stepped into his domain, the lion's den, and he had the control here. He would know the layout of the building and, in all likelihood, he knew where she was and would probably be able to predict her movements before she made them. But despite this, she pressed forward, fingers tracing a wall to give her some illusion of control.

The building was lit by one or two windows fortunate enough to catch the moon and starlight, and the meager lighting revealed black blobs resembling shelving shoved against the wall opposite where the windows were located. Directly in front and behind her there was no light, and it was a void that she couldn't escape from. If she entered the light, Crout would see her, and if she stayed she would no doubt be found. That thought was the only thing that kept her feet moving.

After a few moments she hit a corner and turned with it, her heart catching in her throat when her shoe came into contact with something solid. Solid and breathing. Caught off balance, she fell into it, and with great horror realized that the thing was alive. She quickly stumbled off and backed up, planting her feet in the best defensive pose she could muster.

"Dr. Brennan," Richard Crout said, and she could see him now, "I'm glad you found me."

"Your message wasn't all that helpful," she replied, " 'Our meeting is due.' "

"And yet here you are."

It was true. She had only realized after recalling his story of the scar and the emphasis he had put on the location of the gas station that the meeting place was here. It was perfect—isolated and abused. She doubted anyone but Crout had utilized the place for an extended amount of time, making it ideal for his own sick purposes.

"So why did you lure me here, Mr. Crout?"

" 'Lure' seems a little harsh doesn't it?" his voice was just as easy as ever, and she could barely make out the smile on his lips.

"Not at all."

"It was an invitation."

"And no doubt had I refused you would have simply shown up again."

"Probably," he shrugged.

"But you see, this wasn't not the most intelligent move on your part."

"Really?" amusement was back in his tone, "And why is that?"

"I have evidence."

"Evidence of what, pray tell, Temperance?"

"Your murder of Katherine Banks. Admittedly, at first I never noticed it, but now it seems as clear as day."

"Really?" his eyes were black pits as they bored into her own.

"Oh yes," she did not back down, "And therefore I am placing you under arrest," her tone was as confident as his was light.

"Nice try," he laughed,"But we both know you don't have the authority to arrest anyone."

"I think today they will make an exception."

"I don't," he shook his head as he got up and moved toward her.

Brennan moved the gun squarely between her chest and his own, "Do not come any closer."

"Now, now, Temperance, there's no need for violence."

She didn't know how it happened or even when it did. All she knew was that she went from having the gun between her fingertips and watching as he slipped it between the folds of his jacket.

At that moment it became very clear that she was in trouble, more so than she had been just a few moments before.

"So in the interest of fairness, what did you find?"

She glared at him, wanting to hold onto her last bit of leverage but knowing she couldn't and remain in relative safety, "One of the slashes on the left radius and ulna—it wasn't consistent with the other damage. These were more like gouges, gouges from being scraped very hard against another surface that was much sharper. So did I get it right, Mr. Crout? Was it really you that scraped your arm against a crate or..." she paused, "was it Katherine Banks?"

He didn't say anything for a moment, but when he did his grin was even wider and perhaps even more maniacal than it had been before, "You're right on both counts actually. It was I who originally cut myself, but I replicated it on the young lawyer."

Brennan swallowed, hard. It was one thing to suspect a murderer and another to have him admit it. And it was another thing entirely if one happened to be alone and reasonably defenseless at the time of the confession. But she had to be sure, "So you admit it?"

"I do. I killed her. I killed them all. Feels nice to admit it, actually." His voice was frank, even, as if what he was saying was completely normal.

All? She repeated the word in her mind, feeling sick. Her situation was becoming more dire by the moment and she berated herself for acting like such a fool. Why hadn't she called Booth?

"Your wife?" she managed to ask, not wanting to show any sign of faltering, through she knew her poise must have shifted dramatically.

"I'll leave that up to your squints."

Her mind latched onto his use of the term. How could he know it? Only her partner used it to describe her team. With a dull pang in her chest, she realized, "You've been watching me."

He nodded, "I was surprised that no one ever figured it out. Wouldn't believe how pleased I was when you showed up on my doorstep." He was closer now, and she could smell the detergent from his clothing.

She felt sick, more sick then she had since their first meeting. She hated this man. She hated every breath he took, every step he walked, every word he spoke. The hate was draining her energy, leaving her feeling more tired and exposed then before. "What is it that you want?" Her voice held the only strength she had left.

"I'd like to love you, Temperance."

The words struck through her like a knife to the chest and the implications made her vision go black.

--

Booth sat through a red light, furious because there was no one else even on the roads at this ungodly hour. His fingers were tapping a rapid staccato on the wheel and he wanted to turn on the sirens or pull out his gun and blow a hole through the light that kept him sitting there. It felt like it had been at least twenty minutes, when, in reality, it had only been two.

"What the hell does she think she's doing?" he asked the air, the red light, the rain on his windows, "What does it prove if she gets herself killed?"

Of course, it proved nothing. To his partner, this was just some sort of intellectual game. A fascinating study on human behavior when the individual had been isolated from society. This was a move of independence from her, just the same as when she walked ahead of him into a suspect's house or hit a psychotic over the head with a bedpan. It was insanity, but it was a special kind of insanity that only Brennan possessed. The kind only a scientist could understand.

And likely, when he caught up to her at last, she wouldn't be thankful for the rescue. She'd tell him that everything was under control and that she was fine. She would tell him that Crout was incapacitated. He'd tell her that he was checking her into a mental institution. She would roll her eyes and punch his shoulder and then provide him with a lecture that no university could ever rival.

But to Booth, that was just fine. He'd love to be bored to death by one of her speeches in which she said "anthropologically speaking" ten thousand times and told him that he was completely missing the point. Hell, he'd ask for one if she didn't immediately provide it.

Thirty seconds passed and the light still hadn't changed. That was all it took for him to lose his last strand of patience.

With one final expletive he cut through the light and all those that followed, his goal an abandoned gas station on the border of Virginia and the woman who stood within it.

--

Brennan leaned heavily against the wall, trying to regain her balance enough to stand on her own. Crout was close, and he appeared to be moving even closer, circling her as if she were a wounded antelope and he a scraggly hyena.

"You alright?" he asked in a voice that sounded of genuine concern, though she did not buy it.

Remaining silent, she watched him from the corner of her eye, keeping track of his movements. He would be in striking distance if he took just a few more steps. Then it would just be a matter of speed.

"It would seem that you're a bit surprised by my desire," Crout went on, oblivious to her plotting as he took yet another agonizing step toward her, "I'm surprised. Surely for an FBI consultant you would have learned to read people?" There. He was close enough.

"Yeah, well," she flashed forward and grabbed his arm, twisting it painfully behind his back, "I didn't." She retrieved the gun and backed off, muzzle trained on his chest.

"But apparently your training in kinetics leave nothing to be desired," he commented with a smile, seemingly unfazed by the pain that his arm must've been in or the fact that the weapon was in her possession once more.

"Apparently," her voice was dry. Her composure was back and her fear had been staved by whatever security her gun provided, "Tell me about Katherine."

He ignored her, speaking only after a long pause, "You know, it's easy to manipulate people with information. Facts, it would seem, are only influenced by the perceptions through which they are viewed. And people believe what they want to believe even if the facts are contrary."

She waited warily, wondering where he was going but relieved that he had stopped moving.

"There are some who believe that the end justifies the means while there are others who believe that it is only the motivation behind an action that gives the consequence any meaning. And then there are those persons who will actively believe both of these philosophies when it best suits them. But I've found that these belief systems are almost entirely influenced by the context in which it is being applied.

"Katherine believed that the end justified the means. She fought for whatever it was she believed in and damn the rules if they got in the way. The company held onto her because she refused to lose a case out of pride.

"But it turned out that when I myself did the testing, her philosophy changed. It was no longer the result that mattered, it was the process through which that result was achieved. And she dared lecture me about my own motivation," his voice sounded bitter as he met Brennan's eyes, "But you—you do not care about any of these things. Your morality is set to that which makes the most rational sense. Sometimes emotions play into the equation, and sometimes they don't. You are on an eternal quest for the truth, and in that way we are both the same."

"I am not you," her own voice was as hard as steel and her anger was coming back, fear long since forgotten.

"Ah, but of course. The great Temperance Brennan is on the opposite side of morality than I. At heart, though you may not always acknowledge emotions as anything other than soft and intangible, you work for the people rather than the greater good. To you, I am morally bankrupt."

"Do you see yourself as such?"

"When viewed in our society's context, then I suppose I am."

"And this is okay with you?"

"Temperance," the darkness in the room made the sea in his eyes look foreboding, "I am controlled by my own perceptions."

"So I take that as a no." It was a statement, because she knew it was the truth.

"Precisely." His smile had never faltered, "You see? We understand each other."

"Mr. Crout, I—"

"Bones!" A voice cut through the stillness and it took a lot of control for her to keep her eyes where they were, "Bones! Where are you?"

"Here, Booth," she replied, feeling something unidentifiable in her chest.

"Oh thank God you're alright." Out of the corner of her eye she could see his silhouette move through the darkness.

"How did you find me?" she asked.

"I traced this Looney Toon's call," he suddenly sounded angry, "What the hell did you think you were doing?"

"Well, he invited me out here. What was I supposed to do?"

"I don't know. Go home. Call me. Cower in the corner and wait for someone to save you."

"What?" she faced him, "In what way would that be productive?"

"Ugh," he rolled his eyes, "You know what I mean."

"Well, I didn't need the FBI. I was handling the situation just fine," she ignored what had transpired up to the moment she had regained the gun.

"Bones, what do you want? A pat on the head? You walked right into maniac's trap."

"Apparently not if I'm still—"

"Bones," he cut in, "Where the hell is Crout?"

"Wha—" she turned but there was no one there. "Hm."

" 'Hm' ? That's all you have to say?"

"Yes," her hands slid to her hips, "It is."

"You know, Bones, I'm starting to get the feeling you're not taking this as seriously as you should."

"And yet here we are having an argument in the middle of the maniac's den."

He held up a finger and opened his mouth, but then shook his head, "To be continued."

"Whatever you say," she shook her head as he turned and walked into the inky blackness on their right, gun out, then followed. For a moment there was silence as they padded over the old tile flooring, and then it suddenly occurred to her, "Aren't there any reinforcements?"

Her partner was quiet for a few beats and she knew the answer before he spoke it, "They're on their way."

"You came here _alone_? And you're judging _me_?"

"I'm an FBI agent. With a gun."

"I have a gun too."

"And a badge, Bones."

"What makes you think Crout cares?"

"Point is I would've been able to handle this better."

"I don't think so."

"Of course you don't. Where did you even get that gun anyway?"

"I bought it."

"With your record?"

"I do, in fact, have a permit now."

"I should have them pull it."

"You do and _I_ will shoot you between the eyes."

"Could save you the trouble, Temperance," Crout's voice rang from somewhere in the building.

All of the lightness in their moods died, and Booth took a protective step in front of Brennan, his gun hand now tense. "Playtime's over, pal," he growled, "You're under arrest."

"My, my, you're very bossy, now aren't you? Honestly, Temperance, I don't know how you put up with him."

"Don't talk to her. You're dealing with me now." He was directing his words into the darkness, neither of them knowing where the killer was.

Crout ignored him, "You see? He's so rough. Not suitable for someone as lovely as yourself."

"And I suppose someone who tortures and murders women is?" she retorted.

"I never loved them, Temperance."

"Then what do you love?" she was almost afraid of the answer.

"I loved their screams. I loved their pleas for mercy. I loved sinking the blades into their soft flesh." He paused as if savoring the memory, "And I love you."

She swallowed hard; his words earlier had made her feel faint but now she was so filled with revulsion that the nausea had replaced the weakness.

"But I wouldn't do those things to you. We have a special connection, you see."

"Hey!" Booth stepped in front of her once more, "Stop talking to her. I'm the one who's going to shoot you!"

"Go right ahead. Though I know the FBI wouldn't be too happy about one of their agents shooting a suspect unprovoked."

"Right. Unprovoked."

"Just shoot him, Booth," Brennan said.

"Bones," he hissed. "Now's the time to stay quiet."

"Besides, I have something you want," Crout continued, ignoring the exchange.

"I don't make deals with psychopaths."

"We'll see about that."

"No. We won't."

"I think we will."

Booth opened his mouth, but Brennan had lost her final shreds of self-control, "Shut up! You're not witty, you're not interesting, you're not clever. And I don't love you! In fact, I find you're very presence to be revolting."

The words hung in the air like a mist before slowing setting in, and when they did, Brennan could sense that Crout was infuriated.

In what little light that was present in the building, they could both suddenly see his form as it shifted, revealing something shiny and metallic.

"Booth, shoot him," Brennan said, eyes wide as she stared at the muzzle of the gun.

"I can't, Bones, I need a positive ID." He suddenly sounded slightly afraid.

"We know it's him. Just shoot!"

"I can't see him."

"He's got a gun pointed at me!"

After a beat two shots ripped through the stillness, the blast from the muzzles illuminating Crout's maniacal grin before he went down.

A moment later, so did Temperance Brennan.


	6. Epilogue

-00000oooo00000-

Chapter Six

The rain had stopped less than a week after the gunshots rang through the musty air of the gas station. In its stead snow had come, blanketing the city in patchwork of white that muffled the usual noise that a place like DC normally produced.

The Jeffersonian was also in a lull, most of the scientists off on an open-ended holiday until more work was found, in which case they, some reluctantly and some not, would come back in. Cam had long since escaped to her townhouse, and was apparently getting together with a bunch of her old Bronx friends to 'knock back shots and play poker.' Hodgins was still racing beetles with Zack, while Angela was perpetually found in either her best friend's or her own office. Booth was more or less in the same situation as the artist, and had not taken a break in favor of his troubled partner.

Brennan, to her own credit, noticed neither the lull in the city or in the lab. She had spent the last several days in her office or in Limbo, and often had not moved from one spot hours after the first time her friends had visited her.

At the moment, her eyes were riveted to a microscope, and she was all but counting the osteons in an attempt to escape reality. Her efforts were thwarted, once again, by the arrival of Angela Montenegro as she slowly clicked down the stairs to bone storage, the soft rustling of her knee-length skirt following her as she sidled up to the anthropologist.

"You know, if you stare at that thing any harder it may burst into flames," she kidded softly.

"That is highly unlikely," Brennan replied, her eyes still pressed into the goggles of the scope.

"Joke, sweetie. How about we look up?"

She did and raised a weary eyebrow.

Angela smiled, "Now that's something. I don't suppose I could get you outside, could I? It's so pretty. DC's first snow of the year."

She took an involuntary step backward and was met with the hard steel of the light table on which a skeleton sat. Her hands slid onto the cool surface, and she shook her head once. "No, Ange. I—I'd really just like to work."

"You can't avoid us forever, sweetie," her voice was firm but not unkind.

"I'm not avoiding you."

"We feel like you've pulled a Rip Van Winkle."

Her eyebrows knit in confusion, "The dog?"

"No, Bones," a familiar voice said as its owner padded down the stairs, "That's Rin Tin Tin."

"Oh." She stared at Booth and the file he clutched.

The artist and the FBI agent exchanged a look at her ignorance, but thankfully commented no further.

"Do you have something for me?" she asked.

"Yeah." He paused, "It's okay if you don't want to deal with it."

"No, Booth," she held out a hand, "It's fine."

After a brief moment, he gave the file to her, and she flipped it open as he started talking, "Forensics went over the gas station. They, uh, found several blood traces. Cam even came in and personally ran the DNA." He waited until she met his eyes, "Five women."

"Five?" she repeated.

"Yeah. One was Katherine."

"And the rest?"

He shook his head and she said nothing, her attention returning to the file.

"Bones?" her partner's voice cut in after eons had passed, "He's asking for you."

Slowly, her eyes crawled up and held his own, "What does he want?"

"You. Alone."

She shook her head. The nausea was back, "In exchange for what?"

"The identities of the women."

She continued to shake her head, the very prospect of seeing Richard Crout again sending shivers through her spine. But at the same time, another part of her wanted to give four women back to their families, to provide them with closure and truth.

Crout's mock kiss had sent her to her knees more effectively than the bullet that had brought him down. His own shot had pinged into the wall yards away from where she had stood, and the fact that he had never intended to harm her made her feel more revulsed than if he had aimed it straight for her heart. Brennan wanted to beat him to a pulp, but at the same time she wanted him to disappear so she would never have to see him again or acknowledge his twisted existence.

"You don't have to decide now," Booth said gently.

She nodded and exhaled, "You're not in trouble, are you?"

"For shooting him? No. FBI deemed it provoked."

"I'm glad."

He took a step closer to her, "Bones, you shouldn't be worrying about me."

"I'm your partner. It's my responsibility."

"You should really be more worried about yourself. Crout almost killed you."

"No. He didn't aim at me. He never had any intention of harming me."

"Bones," he suddenly sounded angry, "A few inches over and he would have. You never should've gone in there alone. Why didn't you call me?" he paused, "Don't you trust me?"

She was shocked by the hurt in his voice, "Of course I do."

"Then why risk your life? What were you trying to prove to that lunatic?"

"I...I don't know."

"Bones," he rubbed his face with his hands, sounding frustrated, "You really need to sort out your motivation before running straight into the lion's den."

"Well, what difference does motive make?"

"All the difference, Bones."

She flashed back to Crout but quickly blocked the memory before it could manifest itself.

"Just promise me you won't do that again?" her partner's voice was now worried. "Or at least that you'll call me?"

Her hands slid to her hips, "You make it sound like I get offers from serial killers all the time."

"It happens often enough that it's a concern."

She pursed her lips, "Fine. I won't."

He offered a hand, "Promise?"

After a moment's hesitation she reached forward and shook, "Yes. I do."

"Somehow, I don't think this is a promise you'll keep, Bones," Booth said with a frustrated sigh.

Brennan wanted to lighten the mood, to say something witty. But her mind was absent of ideas, so she just answered frankly, "Then hold onto your delusion until it shatters."

He rolled his eyes, and she smiled, glad that the tension was slowly dissipating at last.

Angela, forgotten by the stairs, clicked away, shaking her head at the antics of the partners and hoping that the resolution meant peace in her best friend's mind.

"So..." Booth said after a long stretch of silence as a twinkle wormed it's way into his eyes, "Would you like to have lunch, Bones?"

"Yes," she surprised herself by saying, "Yes. I would."

He smiled and stepped aside, holding out an arm in a mock presentation, "Then after you, Bones."

Brennan gave an exaggerated nod as she started forward, putting Crout out of her mind, "The Diner?"

"Of course."


End file.
